Beloved Blight
by ahiddenbanshee
Summary: Not long after the events of A Scandal in Belgravia does Baker Street welcome (not welcome) another visitor. Sherlock's (not) sister, whose appearance may be more beneficial than the detective would like to admit. Their history is curious, but it's the present that is far more puzzling and intriguing (Shut up, John). [Humor/Mystery/Drama/Crime/Family/whateven/HurtCom fort/Romance?]
1. Chapter 1

"There's a girl here for you, Sherlock!"

And that was the statement, in Sherlock's opinion, that started it all... And by 'started it all', to an innocent bystander's view, was just another dramatized (as per usual by John's standards) woe from the consulting detective.

The sound of trainers, the very same ones from ten years ago no doubt, creeping softly across the floor, up the stairs. The scent of vanilla and Seven Minute Cigar poisoning the air. There was no escaping it, he'd never found a way to evade it, shake it off his trail completely, without a trace; Mycroft was unquestionably involved - _the traitor_, Sherlock's thoughts hissed. Any minute now, any second, he'd hear the shrill, unpleasant voice that accompanied those soft treading feet, that familiar combination of smells; that voice like nails, glass and bamboo splinters shoved beneath his nails, in his ears, eyes and brain. And yes, he would admit, he was being somewhat dramatic, but a case like this justified it. This girl, this - this somehow human being, this thing he was forced to be acquainted with, this deplorable excuse for a -! This - This - ! Plague -!

"Sherly!"

Sherlock's teeth were grinding so hard he couldn't even muster a reply beyond a sub-vocal growl, his fingers clenched unmercifully tight around the bow and neck of the unfortunate object that was subjected to his anger; his violin, the poor thing; his grip relented only when a slight, pleading creak was heard.

"Come now, don't look so sour," the girl, it seemed, was professionally oblivious to Sherlock's distress, as was proven by the bright grin she was sporting, sending a short wink his way before turning back to John - the one who had let her in. John! His trusted confidant! Apparently no longer, since he'd let this blight in unawares of what she... No... _No_, he was completely aware, he had to be, _of course_ he was! The bastard, he was probably in on it with Mycroft! She stuck her hand, the one now void of an unseasonable glove, toward John while his brow continued to scrunch up in utter confusion. _Yes, yes, just play like you don't know _exactly _what's going on, John, traitor, liar. Liars everywhere!_ Sherlock's inner monologue speculated.

Just before the second word of the girl's self introduction could tumble off her tongue Sherlock stepped away from the window, back in control of his motor skills and vocal chords he crowed loudly for Mrs. Hudson. The elderly woman was just entering the lounge area of the second floor, startling when Sherlock shouted, she pressed a hand over her heart, but her eyes fell to the girl just beside John and filled with delight. The image of a petulant child and becoming more so with each welcoming action, Sherlock thrust his bow in the girl's direction, then made a sharp flicking gesture, "Mrs. Hudson, be a dear and escort Miss Holmes from the premises, **please**."

The way he practically seethed the name 'Holmes' was not lost on John, and the girl didn't look very impressed either. Mrs. Hudson waved Sherlock off, grumbling about him being ridiculous and extended her arms to the girl and hauled her in, welcoming and warm.

"Sorry, Miss Holmes, did you say?" John asked (and he had the _gall_ to look perplexed). The former military man looked between the detective and the strange new girl that had roused such an alarming reaction from the former; looking back and forth between them four times until finally his hand rose and gestured with a single finger pointed in the direction of 'Miss Holmes', "Is she your -," he swung his gaze to her, his finger switching to point at Sherlock, "Are you his - his _**wife**_?" The idea was astounding, but John supposed lots of people, especially Sherlock, had peculiar pasts. Skeletons in the closet, so to speak. What was a secret marriage? Something John totally expected Sherlock never to mention.

But by the way both of them scoffed, one in disgust, accompanied with a more scolding than anything else sort of tone, "Don't be ridiculous, John," and the other with a snorting laugh of amusement, he figured no. As was further proven correct when the girl spoke again with that less than posh accent of hers, "He wishes." To which Sherlock once again puffed indignantly, crossing his arms and turning partially to throw his gaze out the window.

"It's been a while, hasn't it, brother?"

John himself felt physically struck when Sherlock whipped his icy eyes back around, glaring hotly at the girl; John glanced back and forth between them again, unconsciously looking for similarities, but mostly to make sure the girl hadn't actually been killed by his flatmate's deathly stare. **Literally**, if looks could kill. But the girl was fine, she was still breathing, still standing, still smirking; grinning, in fact, like an absolute chesire cat. This girl. This girl who was... Sherlock's sister?

And here John thought he was immune to Sherlock-induced/related (quite literally in this case, it seemed) surprises...

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NOTE: I don't know why or how this happened, but you know how it is. You get to boozing, and you get to thinking, and most of the time those thoughts are nothing good, but I decided to write this little beginning piece because... I like the BBC's Sherlock, like a lot. And the other week I listened to the second season's commentary, and it's really interesting stuff they talk about (SYMMETRY!) when they aren't talking about Lara getting to do the most amazing things as Irene, including putting her boobs in Ben's face... I'm not so sure who I'd rather be, honestly. Hah!

Anyway... Uh, what? I forgot where I was going with this. But never fear, those that follow The Walker, I'm not done with that story! Nope! Not done! This is just a random writing thing that I'll do on the side for funsies (since TWD is CONSTANT ANGST! Gadhgaslfjaslfja!) and probably pick up once The Walker is finished. I'm honestly not sure where this is going to go genre wise. I'm hoping for some humor, but drama aaaaalways drags me back into its clutches. Romantical things? Kind of hard to believe with Sherlock. Sherlock and Irene is a thing I enjoy, but then again, I also enjoy Sherlock and John... I don't know, but I'll put romance there because maybe it'll go that direction... or maybe it went that way in the past...? And maybe we'll get an indepth glance at that? I don't know, we'll see what happens. And I don't know who I'm referring to when I say 'we'. My many personalities and I? Ohmygod I need to stop. I recommend writing drunk, but not writing author's notes drunk, because then you just get sorta chatty... with yourself... since there's no audience... Shutting up now!

DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT own ANYTHING! NOTHING is what I own. Seriously...


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't _**have**_ a sister," Sherlock absolutely hissed; the violin had been mercifully tossed to a chair, but the bow was still an unfortunate victim, trapped in a white knuckle grip. He wielded it like a whip, gesturing in the direction of the stairs, "Mrs. Hudson, show her to the door, though I'm sure she can find it on her own, I wouldn't trust those light fingers of hers."

Both Mrs. Hudson and Miss Holmes clicked their tongues in distaste. The girl looking far more unimpressed, though there was still an amused glint in her eye, "Oh, come off it with that. I was _eleven_ and you were fifteen, you_ said_ you needed my expertise with an experiment."

"Yes, but that didn't give you free range over my room - my _personal things_."

"Hey," Miss Holmes raised her hands in front of her in a surrendering motion, "I believed you when you said those magazines were purely for research purposes."

John snorted, Sherlock looked livid and Mrs. Hudson's cheeks flushed as she murmured, "Oh, dear. I don't really think that's appropriate."

Miss Holmes couldn't suppress her grin as she curtly said, "Apologies, Mrs. Hudson."

"Sorry! Totally lost here! You're his sister?" John failed to contain a chuckle from escaping his throat. He couldn't believe it, and how could he, honestly? There was this girl, this girl with ginger hair, honey brown eyes, and lightly freckled skin, and an attitude far from that of any Holmes attitude he'd encountered. Mycroft and Sherlock were, well... They were **Mycroft** and **Sherlock**; this girl, though, this _Miss Holmes_, she was not like them. Not one bit. In fact, he was starting to rather like her from just the few short minutes she'd been here. The way she'd riled Sherlock up so easily, simply with her presence it seemed, in a different sort of manner than the way Mycroft put Sherlock into a mood, it was comical to John. "He never mentioned he had a sister."

"Adopted," Sherlock huffed, eyes still narrowed and firmly set on the red head.

The girl's grin fell, and not a moment later her chin began to tremble and her eyes glistened, "Wh-what? Sherly, please," she mumbled, watery, shaky. John looked between the girl, Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson. She looked positively crushed, John saw Mrs. Hudson had that motherly look on her face, the scolding one, rather than the concerned one, and Sherlock - "Please say you're joking," she begged - Sherlock rolled his eyes, crossed his arms and turned toward the window again. The girl continued on, voice crackling, "Mummy always said I looked different from you and Myc because I resembled Granddad. Sherly. Sh-sher-," her quivering voice hitched and gave way to giggles that broke into full blown belly laughs. From the side of his vision John could see Mrs. Hudson trying to withhold a smirk, tutting the girl before moving on into the kitchen, sweeping through it and putting things in their proper place, though, as she said numerous times before - she wasn't their house keeper.

The girl wiped a tear from her eye - one from mirth - and any glimmer of her facade washed away when that grin was on her mouth again, and a few stray chuckles left her throat, "Oh, that's good. That is rich." She brushed her hand against her dark jeans and stuck her hand out to John again, "Edlyn. Winsome. Pleased to meet you, Doctor Watson."

"Going by Winsome now, how very debonair," Sherlock remarked dryly, body still facing the window, bow still clutched tightly, and eyes glaring hotly toward the undeserving passersby on Baker Street.

The girl - Miss Holmes let out a quiet sigh, releasing John's hand as she muttered, "Winsome has the street cred that Holmes never will, a grandeur among the scum. A certain je ne sais-,"

"If you finish that phrase I will throw you from this window myself." Sherlock's grip grew impossibly tighter as he grumbled his threat, low enough that Mrs. Hudson didn't catch it, but not so low enough that John heard.

"Clearly someone's still cross with the French," Miss Holmes - Miss Edlyn Winsome - stage whispered from the side of her mouth, and John fought against a grin when the bow in Sherlock's hand actually snapped. Miss Winsome raised her arms up and flopped them heavily to her sides with an audible thump, "Well, go on, I know you're dying to. _Deduce me_, _**detective**_."

Sherlock chucked the broken bow onto the chair with his thankfully still intact violin, he folded his hands together behind his back, keeping his eyes cast toward the ceiling rather than looking at her - now that was something John thought he'd never see. Sherlock was inappropriately insouciant by personal boundaries or staring; though under the right circumstances he could act his way through a normal-human-being farce easily. This, though, this was different, peculiar, even. "I see you've rid yourself of that ghastly nose piercing."

"Yes," she replied quickly, unscathed, though her fingers came to brush under her nose briefly. John didn't see any visible scarring, so he had to assume it was a septum ring; hm, interesting, indeed. "And _I see_ you still fancy yourself an incredibly tight shirt. They make shirts that small? And you still forget to eat, I'm sure." She rattled off easily without a breath between comments until she turned toward the kitchen to address - "Mrs. Hudson, does he-?"

"That's none of your concern," he cut her off sharply, though his tone remained flat and seemingly unbothered.

She nodded a jerky, mocking nod, "Oh, it isn't? What about the time you fainted during a six day 'case', hm? And I had to lug your stupid arse down the hall to-"

"Irrelevant!" he shouted, effectively cutting her off again.

She breathed out a quiet 'hm' when she closed her mouth, rolling her eyes quickly she made to step toward the sofa, "Well? I introduced myself to your flatmate, do I have to introduce myself to a chair, too?"

John noted the jovial attitude was slowly dissipating from their guest, clearly she wasn't as impervious to Sherlock's - well, **Sherlock **- as he'd originally thought. Though she sure as hell was a wonder at pissing him off, just as angering as Anderson and Sally combined, it seemed. He could probably watch them exchange blows for hours, just waiting for one to snap, but now wasn't the time. He launched into action, remembering his manners.

"Of course not, here -" John's polite gesture and words were halted when Sherlock's voice rose over his.

"No, because you're leaving. Right now."

And that seemed to hit the girl, she brought her outstretched leg, in mid movement toward the sofa, back and looked wounded for a moment. Mrs. Hudson rushed forward, taking the girl's forearm into her hands comfortingly, "Sherlock, stop that. This is your sister -,"

"Not my sister."

"- and you need to stop acting so childish," the older woman chided.

Sherlock looked from his landlady then to his sister, then back again, his mouth pursed in irritation, he seemed to be fighting against a shout making its way up his throat. He swallowed it down, and for a second it appeared he was relenting. He calmly began again, gesturing to the stairs behind the trio, "Get out my house, Miss Holmes, or -,"

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson berated loudly, and the detective rolled his eyes, a groan escaping his mouth, escalating in pitch as he wandered toward the mantel piece, muttering begrudgingly to the skull.

"Alright now, this is my house, too. And I'd like you to stay, if you want," John offered gently.

"Fine!" Sherlock sprang away from the fire place and started toward them, "Then I'll leave."

And the beginnings of a row would have started, with both John and Mrs. Hudson prepared to chastise him, but Miss Winsome's voice sounded above them.

"No, no. I'll go." Her tone grew softer when she had all attention on her again, not wanting to shout when it wasn't needed, "I just came by to say hello to Mrs. Hudson anyway. I didn't mean to intrude, but when Doctor Watson answered the door I couldn't help myself." She turned to John and gave him a bright grin - this time though, it didn't reach her eyes - and nodded shortly, "It was lovely to meet you." She flickered a brief glance Sherlock's way, "Sherly," she said curtly, then finally turned, putting her gloves back on, "Mrs. Hudson."

John watched as the older woman took her arm and guided them from the second level, their feet sounding against each step they took; Mrs. Hudson's voice cheerfully said, "I'll see you to the door, dear. Oh! And I just remembered. I've got a gift for you, from Christmas, I wasn't sure where to send it so I decided to..." Her words faded into a dull mumble, there was a moment when Winsome's soft reply was heard, but John didn't make any move to speak just yet, not until he heard the front door open and close signalling their visitor's departure.

Sherlock's spine went rigid when they could hear Mrs. Hudson sweetly say something toward the likes of inviting Winsome back when Sherlock wasn't being so moody and detestable; and then Winsome's reply of, "Well, then we won't be seeing much of each other anytime soon." Mrs. Hudson's laughter rang up the stairs and John stifled his own, passing it off as a tickling cough in the back of his throat. Sherlock marched to the window when the front door thunked closed, seething, truly seething.

"Well, she's very -" John began.

"Insufferable," Sherlock supplied as he yanked the curtain over the window with an aggressive flourish, turning as he did to retrieve his violin from his chair before taking a seat.

John nodded, then shrugged, "Well, I was going to say - obviously not related to you, and quite lovely, but..." He trailed off with an impish little smirk playing on his mouth when Sherlock threw a sour expression his way.

"John," the detective stated evenly, "Don't."

"What?" John asked, hands splayed out as he shrugged again, taking a seat in his own chair opposite Sherlock.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" John was only messing with him now, though -

"That thing you do when you... _fancy_ a woman," Sherlock spat the word like it was foreign to him, and as far as John knew it _was_ foreign to him, the concept of fancying someone - well, someone with a pulse - well, someone who wasn't a murderer. Sherlock liked things, that wasn't unusual... he just... liked unusual things. "And especially _her_, just - don't."

"Alright, alright. Protective," John murmured and chuckled when Sherlock shot him a downright maddened look. "So, uh, who is she, really?"

Sherlock's eyes rolled up into his skull, he let his eyelids fall closed as he took a deep inhale through his nose, like it pained him to even think of her. Though his blight was gone, she'd left her scent, her touch, her mark. Of course John was curious, finally wanted to hear him explain something when it was something Sherlock loathed to acknowledge. His eyes opened again with his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

How to begin the tale of the adopted Holmes girl...?

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Note: I don't know if I mentioned this, but this is un-beta'd. And also I do not recommend late night drunk editing. Wow...  
Also a special thanks to Plucky44, the only follower of this story. Hah!  
Oh, my god. Time for booze induced sleep - the second best induced kind of sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

"There's nothing to tell. She's ordinary, John. Just a girl my mother decided to claim custody of when Mycroft and I were younger."

"Oh, please. Like that's true," John scoffed, catching Sherlock off guard for a moment before those translucent eyes narrowed in suspicious question. "She's a _Holmes_," John pronounced carefully, surely, "You lot always have some massive, glamourous life, or something or other going on. Mycroft's the British government, you're a genius, consulting detective. She's got some outrageous back story, I'm sure of it."

Sherlock grinned briefly, just a quick flash of a smirk at the corner of his mouth, eyes now fixed determinedly on his broken bow while John continued, "And I'm surprised at you; not jumping at the chance when she'd offered herself up for deduction. That's you favourite thing, that's like a greeting in your language." Any brightness in Sherlock's demeanor darkened again, but especially when John wondered, "Did you _**not**_ notice anything?"

"Of course I noticed, John. How could I not notice?" he snapped.

John, unvexed, gestured to him, then rested his fist against his cheek, awaiting the show, "Go on then."

Sherlock inhaled slowly, the image of her still fresh in his mind - unfortunately, for him - as well as her scent in the air, he gathered all the information he'd received.

"Same as last I saw her. Almost exactly, but not quite. She was testing me, wanted me to notice the subtle differences. She liked these sorts of things, sometimes. She could take it with a laugh. Other times..." John saw Sherlock's expression sober into something strange, not quite resigned, but not sorrowful. It was swept away too quickly for John to really examine it, or question it, as Sherlock surged onward with his findings, "Trainers, same pair from eight years ago. The sole is worn incredibly thin, for a shoe like that; worn, ragged, falling apart; she needed a new pair ages ago, but they're her favourite so she's taped up what can't be sewn back together; she was never really a seamstress anyway, the simplest solution was always the best solution. Jeans, same brand, different cut, dyed two or three times going by the blotches and uneven colouring and scent. Same shirt, same coat, no sentiment there, just testing me. Back from business just today, had an early flight in; could've gone home to rest, but no, she went to Mycroft first. Had a short lunch with him - crumbs on her coat sleeve and seeing how she managed by enough energy to pay another visit since arriving home; her eyes are tired but her body's not so tired that she could come round Baker Street to see an old friend, and by coincidence, myself as well. She's stressed or bored, explained by her chewed fingernails - she's started that up again. Stressed or bored of what? Work, I assume, what ever that is."

"You don't know?"

"Something with Mycroft, I'm not sure and don't care to know."

"The Government. Your sister is _also_ the British Government?"

"Boredom, I expect. She never really was adamant about _Queen and Country_." Sherlock seemed to muse to himself, forgetting John for the moment. "Anything else you want to know? She's had her hair cut within the last two weeks, the eyeliner she's using now since her usual stick has been discontinued?"

John tilted his head to the side, nearly amused, but still very curious, "No. But how did she become a Holmes?"

Sherlock sighed tiredly, and steepled his hands together before his lips. There was a long moment of pause until his hands fell away and he gripped the arms of his chair before he began...

"Throughout my childhood Mother would open up the estate to needy children. Foster care. Tri-annually she would care for a foster child, along with Mycroft and I. It wasn't so bad, just some child infecting our home for a few months. It was usually Mother and Mycroft who would pay them attention anyway, I couldn't be bothered. Why establish a relationship when they were just a temporary blip on the radar."

John forced himself not to chasten Sherlock on his lack of compassion; they were wasted words after all, wasted time and breath. Instead he just pursed his lips and listened.

"It was fine, until the day it wasn't... Until the day Mother let one in that she really liked, one that she didn't want to let go," Sherlock ground out. "Edlyn Winsome, as it is told in the records, was orphaned in the streets of Gent. How she managed to get herself on a boat and back into English territory is something she couldn't - _**wouldn't **_- explain; something she says she can't remember, but she knows - of course she knows."

Sherlock's gaze was long lost in the distance for a few moments until John broke the silence, nonchalantly clearing his throat. "From what information she did relay to the police, psychoanalysts, and child psychologists, we know she's from a family of beggars, thieves and gypsies; no doubt she used those learned skills to con her way to England to keep surviving on her own, until she was caught..."

"Sometimes I wonder if she let herself get caught, someone with such skills; she could've lied, cheated and stole and lived a good life just like that..." A reflective look came across Sherlock's face, something that almost could've been seen as admiration, or a denotation of being impressed, but once again it was gone in a flash; like a quick little upturn at the corner of his mouth; Sherlock was careful to conceal his emotions, to be void of them completely if he could help it - and he usually could.

"Nevertheless, she ended up in Mother's care. And Mother had always wanted a daughter, but was _plagued_ just with two sons... A few girls had passed through but apparently Edlyn fit the bill in ways the others couldn't. Mother fell in love with her, adopted her. She became Edlyn Winsome _Holmes_. When she was nine years old," Sherlock was grinding out his words again, and John was concerned he might actually chip a tooth or grind his teeth into dust, "Mother threw her a ball. A _ball_, John."

"Oh, well, it was special. Welcoming a new member into the family, just a welcoming party, or a birthday party. I'm sure you and Mycroft got the same -"

"No, John. It was a ball. Not a party. Not like the parties Mother would throw and make us attend and mingle and..." Sherlock pulled a face like the memory of past birthday parties left a rancid taste in his mouth. "This was something from a fairy tale, and Edl -," he paused to grimace, "_She_ had the gall to accept all the gifts, thank everyone, and then announce that she would donate them all to charity. What nine year old does that? Tell me! It's not heard of! She's not real, she's peculiar, wrong... inhuman."

"So, she's generous, what's wrong with that?"

Sherlock sent him a fiery look, and John held up his hands in a placating motion of surrender, murmuring, "Fine." But it still didn't actually explain - "So, why do you hate her so much?"

"She is the... _bane_... of my existence, John."

"Yes, I get that - but why?"

John didn't get an answer, not that night, or the next, or the next, because Sherlock swept up from his chair, strode across the room, took his coat from the hook and left in a swirl of billowing coat tails. The door wrenched open and slammed less than half a second after, rattling the house probably all the way up to the shingles. He was left in silence, left to ponder. Mycroft ticked Sherlock off, sure, yes - but they seemed to tolerate each other well enough, were cordial to each other... on occasion. But this time... This other sibling... Edlyn seemed to rouse an anger of the likes which John had never seen in Sherlock. It was interesting, to say the very least. Thought provoking, and he had to understand why. He needed to know the history... But for now he'd settle for the peace and quiet that shrouded the flat. It was rather nice, aside from the act that had led up to it.

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John met the Holmes sister again before he saw Sherlock again. It was a surprise, and a pleasant one at that, since he had expected to see the consulting detective way before he ever saw the girl again. He'd actually assumed that Sherlock's brash attitude had scared her off, for good, but then - here they were.

John about to do the shopping, stepping away from his cab to walk into the grocer's and there she was - the Holmes girl - standing outside a small stand, accepting change back, as well as a small arrangement of flowers wrapped in parcel paper and a red ribbon.

"Hello, Doctor Watson," she greeted him with a grin and gave the change back to the flower vendor, thanking him kindly before approaching. John couldn't help himself, all he could think of was what Sherlock had confessed. Orphaned. Adopted. Charitable. Gypsy. British Government. Ginger. Shorter than him... Huh - that was nice. Just as nice as her warm, welcoming eyes; pink smiling lips, shining white teeth; not a bad figure on her - _Focus, John!_ He snapped himself out of his sexually instinctual reverie when she was just a few steps away, shuffling the flowers into the crook of one arm while offering out her other free hand.

"Oh, Miss H-" John chuckled softly as he took her hand, noting that her skin was soft, but her hold was firm, "Er, Winsome, I should say."

She raised a single shoulder up in a jerky shrug, "Winsome, losesome," she barked out a loud laugh, catching the attention of some bystanders - some of them sending judgmental glances her way that she either didn't notice at all or chose to ignore completely, "I love saying that," she giggled and John nodded along, coughing out a short laugh of his own. She took her hand back, or rather, she released John from her grip and held the flowers to her chest with both hands again. She shrugged, "Holmes or Winsome, doesn't really matter. Though I'd very much prefer it if you called me Edlyn, Doctor Watson."

The doctor agreed with a nod and shot back, "John, please."

Her smile was infectious, and though by physical traits alone it was blatantly obvious she wasn't a Holmes by blood, her demeanor was also a good indication, a hefty contributing factor; she smiled a lot, she was kind, not at all... devious, shady or scheming. It was a breath of fresh air. "Very well, John. So, what version of the story did he tell you. The 'Mother loved her best' or the 'She was just a distraction for Mother'?"

"Oh, uhh." Sure she wasn't as cold as a Holmes man, but she was just as sharp, adept. "The, uhm, the loved you best one," he admitted.

"Hm," she hummed, "Figured he'd go for the double blow. '_Father died and she was just something to distract her from the pain and loss,_'" she recited in an alarmingly on-key impression of Sherlock. She shrugged again, so simply, "He's got a thing for dramatics. You know how show-offs are. Him and Mycroft - theatrics."

John let out a cut off bark of laughter, giving an apologetic glance around to anyone near, mostly the people going in and coming out of the supermarket. When he looked back to Edlyn she had that pleased smile on her face again, a smile that reached her eyes and lit up her face, her entire being. She leaned forward, squinting her eyes slightly as she asked in a whisper, nose scrunching up.

"Did he call me his arch nemesis?"

"No, actually - 'The bane of his existence'." John used finger quotes, "Mycroft is his arch enemy."

"Ah, right." She nodded, "Yes, that's right." Her bottom lip was drawn in between her teeth, gnawing gently as she seemed to space out for a moment. And when she came back she physically jumped, eyes wide, "Oh! I'm so sorry, John! You're here for the shopping aren't you? And I've kept you, I'm sorry!" she apologized.

"It's alright," John chuckled. Politeness from a Holmes, genuine politeness.

"Well, I'd best let you go. I've got to make a little delivery," she flickered her eyes to the flowers in her arms, "But if you'd like to hear my version of things, I'd gladly accept an invitation for tea, or coffee, sometime." She sent a wink his way as she stepped closer toward the street, waving an arm out to hail a cab.

"Oh," John felt his pulse quicken and he felt ridiculously childish for it, "Oh, sure, of course, uhm. Number? Yours, I mean - your phone number," he winced at his fumbling tongue - forget childish, he felt like a bumbling, awkward teenager again.

"I'll text you," she said as a taxi pulled up toward her, "Prefer to text, anyway," she smiled and got into the back seat. The window was rolling down just as John was realizing - how -? "Mycroft gave me your number," she explained before he could ask.

Of course. He rolled his eyes.

"See you soon, John!" She bid him farewell, the sound of her voice giving an address cut off as the window rolled up, and the cab pulled away from the curb. Through the window, Edlyn gave him one last wave, and John raised his arm in something he doubted was a proper gesture back. He shook his head clear once the cab turned a corner and vanished from sight.

Jesus. As if it two Holmes' weren't enough to deal with.

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Note: I'm not saying reviews are required, but they would be greatly appreciated, if anyone's got the time.  
And also thank you to the two others who've started to follow this little disaster of a story.

Disclaimer: I own none of the things, NONE of them.


	4. Chapter 4

When John arrived back at Baker Street with the groceries he was welcomed (a term used very lightly) by the sight of Sherlock adorning his blue, silk dressing down, sprawled along the sofa, with three nicotine patches lining his forearms. There was a frown between his brows and an even deeper one across his mouth. John let out a sigh that would normally be one emitted from a parent, resulting from an unruly child treading on the parent's last nerve.

"Where the hell have you been." It wasn't exactly a question, it was just a sort of acknowledging statement, with a hint of wonder (Sherlock's ways were rubbing off on him). John didn't really care; so long as Sherlock was alive, it didn't matter where he had been... as long as there were no illegal activities involved... God, he hoped Sherlock hadn't gotten up to anything terribly unsavory.

"I was away."

"Obviously." John decided not to bring up Edlyn again, just in case Sherlock pulled another disappearing act. Just because the guy was an over reactive prat didn't mean John didn't care about his well being. More often than not John felt like Sherlock's handler, and he needed to be gentle with him, so as not to upset him.

"_Her_ scent was stuck in the flat." Well, then. Apparently Edlyn wasn't that touchy of a subject - though he'd veer away from the 'why' questions... and probably neglect to mention he'd seen and would be seeing Edlyn again... soon. "Had to leave so it could air out, get back to normal again."

"Right," John hummed as he put things away to their proper places, getting better at not flinching at the body parts floating in various liquids, in numerous locations of the kitchen. "Any cases?" That would pick up Sherlock's mood, surely.

"Nothing compelling," Sherlock sighed dismally, eyes falling closed and an arm slipping from the sofa, fingers dangling close to the floor.

John sighed, half in content - everything was put away - and half in disapproval; he toyed with the idea of asking an array of questions about Edlyn, rapid fire, just to see how fast Sherlock would bolt from the house, so he could get some peace again. He plucked Sherlock's laptop from coffee table and scrolled through the inbox. Most of them were strictly requests a private investigator might take, spying jobs; a few asked for predictions, horse races, weather, if a date was going to go well given alarmingly elaborate details of the other person they were to meet. Sherlock was right, John summed, nothing interesting. But just as he set the computer down to its previous place on the table, the screen jumped, and a new message sat at the top of the inbox list.

"Got another one," he said. He clicked the message open when Sherlock made no indicating movement or sound of ascent, "Looks like a woman's husband is missing. She hasn't gone to the police, but she has gone to the places he frequents: job, pub, clubs. Asked his colleagues, friends, if they've seen him, none know. Says she's positive she saw him walking into an abandoned building a few blocks from their home, when she tried to gain entrance she found everything locked, and when she looked up toward the windows, she could see him and he withdrew immediately. She figures he's being held there, hostage, but she has not received any ransom letters or contact of any kind," John summarized, then put the laptop down, sitting down on the coffee table as well. "What do you think?" he asked. He wasn't answered. "Sherlock."

Sherlock still didn't answer but when John craned his neck around to look at the detective he saw his hands in their usual position when in thought, steepled before his lips.

"Why wouldn't she go to the police?" John quietly mused to himself, since he was clearly alone in this flat despite the other living, breathing, thinking body, just a couple feet away from him.

He almost jumped when Sherlock's voice hit the air. "Obvious. He's not a respectable man. Probably has a record, doesn't want to be landed in hot water again."

John hummed in understanding, "So you're gonna take it? The case, I mean?"

And yet again John was met with silence. He refrained from letting out any sort of dejected noise, or acting out a frustrated motion - he was used to this, after all. He stood and started for his room, leaving Sherlock to his own devices.

But then a buzzing from John's phone in his pocket pulled him to the present. Looking at the screen, it was from a number he didn't have among his contacts. Opening the message - he grinned.

'_Hello, John_ - _E_'

.

Texting Sherlock's sister felt... surprisingly adventurous. Like he was breaking the rules in some way - he wasn't sure how or why it felt like that, but he supposed since he was adamantly keeping his phone with him at all times and not at all mentioning that he was, in fact, speaking to Edlyn, it was secretive and gave off the air of double crossing.

Three days had passed since their encounter outside the supermarket. John was averaging twenty to thirty texts per day from Edlyn, and he'd still not managed to ask her for that tea, or coffee, or something, so they could properly chat. And though he seemed to lack the courage to send a straightfoward invitation, he didn't lack the curiosity to get on the internet and run a search on Edlyn Winsome Holmes.

Strangely, though, nothing was offered until he edited his query to a simplified - Edlyn Holmes. It seemed Edlyn Holmes was her legal name, there was no such person as Edlyn Winsome Holmes. Interesting. But not nearly as interesting as what he found.

Edlyn Holmes had honours and decorations - none of which were military related; which seemed about right in John's mind, she didn't appear hardened by war, given by how sweet and cheerful she was (though he kept the idea that it might be a very well played front in the storage in the back of his mind). But her decorations didn't give any indication of what she'd done to deserve it, nor did her honours. He was sure if it were an official document he'd see lots of lines blacked out by how little these articles offered.

In the few photos that were attached he could see the girl looking just as regal as the royalty bearing witness as the officials bestowed her ribbons onto her. He could see Mycroft, too. Off to the side, or in the less professional photos - the candid ones from on-lookers - Mycroft towering, tall beside her, oozing pride, and smiling back at her when she craned her gaze up to flash him a bright, excited grin.

Taking his search into a different direction - just out of curiosity, sure Edlyn Winsome Holmes didn't exist but - typing Edlyn Winsome, he was brought to result page with many links with strange headlines, but with each page he clicked he was brought to a blank or removed page, or even re-routed to some completely different website. Any minute now he was prepared for his screen to freeze up, a word document to open and words to type up in some creepily cordial manner, telling him to mind where he stuck his nose. But Mycroft didn't have that kind of power... did he? To utilize control over personal computers?

That thought had John snapping his laptop shut hastily, and whipping his gaze around in search of any secret eyes spying on him. But none were there (none that he was aware of, at least) he was simply paranoid... But for good reason.

His phone buzzed on the side table and he jumped. Huffing out a sigh at how ridiculous he was before snatching it up and seeing Edlyn's name and the beginning of her text flash on the screen. He opened the message and his eyes widened.

'_Are you alone? Is Sherly out?_'

The implications that simple query brought to mind... John replied that yes, Sherlock had left earlier this morning, on a case, most likely.

Less than a minute later his phone buzzed again and he read, '_Wonderful. Fancy a drink?_' His mouth went dry and his fingers smashed the keys, he had to back space four times before he was successful in sending - sure, when, where?

He jolted in his chair when the front door opened and clattered closed; steps shuffled up the stairs accompanied by a voice crowing, "Put the kettle on, John! It's story time!"

Fiery tresses were unleashed, let loose and wild from a grey knit cap and coat hood. Edlyn stood in the door way with a grin, breathing heavily from her brisk trek up all the steps that led up to 221 B. "Wait!" she put her gloved hands out, hat clutched in one fist, "I'll go see if Mrs. Hudson's got any biscuits!" And with that she was thundering down the steps, calling out, "Don't just sit there, John! Put the kettle on!"

John chuckled as he heaved himself from his chair and dashed into the kitchen...

Five minutes later the two were sat beside the fireplace. John in his chair, Edlyn in Sherlock's, with her feet folded beneath her, carefully blowing on the steaming liquid.

"So," she muttered after a far too early sip that left her wincing and recoiling from the China cup. She set the cup into its saucer, rolling her eyes again at John for bringing out the fancy stuff, telling him a bag and mug was just fine, but no, he'd insisted loose leaves and fine China. She dropped her hands to her knees and looked to John, eyes wide and imploring, like a child, like John was about to tell her a fascinating story rather than the other way around. "You've got questions. Where would you like me to start?"

John inhaled slowly, easing his cup down before it slipped into his lap. There were so many questions, so many that his mind was racing out of control - he figured this is probably what Sherlock's mind felt like, how could he stand it? He needed some order, he needed to filter and sort the questions in his mind before they all decided to tumble from his mouth in a heap of jumbled nonsense.

What came out after little contemplation was, "Where are you from?" Which coincidentally was actually the best place to start, because she didn't just suddenly pop into existence at nine years old when Mrs. Holmes decided to adopt her, she had a life before that. And judging by the falter in her grin (he blamed Sherlock for his new-found intuitiveness) it must have been a rough one...

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Note: I would like to thank LaraFinja for reviewing! Thank you so, so much! It honestly made me feel fantastic and gave me an extra push to keep going with this little, ridiculous story.  
Also thanks so much for those that are following!

And drunk editing again! Hooray! Any errors I might have missed, go ahead and point them out and I'll fix 'em up!

Disclaimer: I don't own anything! Nothing at all! It's pitiful, really, how little I own.


	5. Chapter 5

"Originally," she started, and for a moment John could detect a hint of Mycroft in the regality of her tone, even if her legs were criss crossed beneath her and her attire was far more casual than he assumed Mycroft owned. He'd probably laugh himself into hysterics if he saw jeans in Mycroft Holmes wardrobe. "Some place in Wales." She tapped her fingers against her knees, chewing on the inside of her lip momentarily in thought, "Yeah, somewhere there, no specifics though. Parents were from... Scotland? Or Ireland?" She bit her lip again, briefly, and shot John an apologetic look, "You'll have to forgive me, I don't have many details."

John was stunned; how could he not be, really? He was getting the straight facts for once, even if they were foggy, they were from the very source. His jaw had fallen slack slightly, but he closed it up before clearing his throat and muttered, "No, no, that's quite alright, just - just in your own time. What ever you're comfortable with."

Edlyn smiled again, though this time it seemed a little shy at the corners, "Sherlock probably mentioned gypsies, right?"

"I assumed it was him being dramatic again, didn't really take it as truth -"

"To an extent," Edlyn cut John off with that sheepish grin, and a blush started to crawl up from beneath her shirt collar, "Travellers, entertainers. Not like circus people, just sort of like... moderately talented, crafty beggars..." The flush burned a little brighter, climbed a little higher up her neck, "They would travel from city to city, put on shows; people would pay; those that could performer would perform, and the children would go to work. When he said liars, cheats, and thieves he wasn't exaggerating."

She paused for a moment, her eyes cast toward the sofa, peering at it, though, as if she was looking through it, beyond it, "We weren't poor. We just looked it. And we couldn't stay in one place for too long. And I - I don't really remember much from those times, but I do know that I had stolen at least 5,000 pounds worth of jewelry and cash from strangers until my family disappeared." She shrugged with a nonchalance that wasn't even half believable - that seemed like even she wasn't comfortable with the acts she'd executed during her childhood, "Sometimes I would fake injures, pretend to be lost... it was an awful business." She blinked rapidly four times then looked back to John, "But the skills I acquired did help me get back to Britain. I didn't know where else to go. I studied a lot of maps while we were on the road and I knew England like the back of my hand, so I thought... Home. Home would be best. I don't know why I thought England was 'home' but I made it here, obviously, and, umm, here I am today." She shrugged again and took up her tea, sipping with care.

"Okay," John said slowly, then blinked a few times, opening his mouth once, twice and third time before he getsured to her, "You're saying your parents disappeared? So they could be alive?"

Edlyn set the cup onto the saucer again, glancing toward the skull on the mantel piece; her mouth quirked upward at the sight of it before she answered, "I was on my own a lot, but they usually came back for me. It was me, my parents, these other people... I don't remember their names... But we were in Gent, during a street festival, and they were there, I turn my back, and they were gone." She looked back to John, "They could be dead, alive, doesn't matter much to me, now, honestly."

The doctor startled, slightly, "But they're your - it's you mother and father."

Edlyn's tea was finished with a final sip, setting the cup down, she fixed her feet to touch the floor, one ankle crossed over the other, sitting properly the way a lady should before she stated with a calm, even tone, "My mother's name is Lynnette Holmes."

John didn't hear much talk of Mrs. Holmes from Sherlock or Mycroft aside from the ocassional who upset Mummy more comment, but with this mysterious sibling's arrival he was starting to learn more and more of the Holmes'. And he supposed he had no right to make such statements when he knew nothing of the life she'd lived, of the people she chose to dismiss, and the ones she decided to trust. Mrs. Holmes probably meant more to Edlyn than John could ever know. "Right," he nodded, an underlying apology in his words, "I understand."

"Thank you."

"So, about becoming a Holmes...?"

"Oh, that." She grinned, and any of seriousness previously in her demeanor vanished, "I'm sure what ever Sherly said was accurate. Scathing hisses, angry glances, then - like you said - he called me the bane of his existence. Isn't he charming?" She laughed.

"Why does Sherlock, uh -"

"Hate me so much? It's all in a jesting manner, I assure you. He can tolerate me, he just doesn't like to be teased."

"Sherlock doesn't joke." John stated.

She hummed to herself, "Doesn't he?"

John snorted quietly, "So he hates you because you teased him while you were kids?"

"Tease. Present, past and future. He's stuck with me," she said with an amused lift at the end of her admission, heaving herself to stand from the chair. "I'd better be off."

"Somehow I don't think that's all of the story." John stood up as well, gathering his and her finished cups. She grinned at him as she shoved her feet back into her shoes without unlacing them.

"The right questions haven't been asked, John. Until they are..." she trailed off, that grin that was becoming familiar to John stretched wide across her mouth.

John rolled his eyes as he passed her on his way to the kitchen, and it startled a laugh out of her. She grabbed her coat, pulling the gloves from within the pockets, "I'd better be off before Sherly gets back, I know he'd probably hit the roof and flee for days again if he-"

"What the hell are you doing here?"

John nearly dropped the delicate China with how badly he jumped at the sound of that baritone. He hadn't even heard the door open or close down stairs, didn't hear shoes coming up the steps. _Jesus_! He ran from the kitchen, just as he heard Edlyn's casual reply, "I was invited."

He rounded the corner to see the girl staring at the detective just as fiercely as he was staring her down. They were an interesting contrast; tall, short; dark hair, ginger hair; cool eyes, amber eyes, fair skin, warmer skin, tinged slightly with freckles. They were probably matched in intellect, if Mycroft and knowing Edlyn was involved in secret government matters as well were anything to go by. But what was the starkest contrast of all, John thought, was the mischievous smile on her lips, and the firm, unwavering line of his mouth; the glimmer of mirth in her eyes, and the downright stony glare from Sherlock.

"Really? Well, now you're uninvited. Please leave." Sherlock side stepped around her, nearly checking his shoulder into her face if she hadn't of taken a step away just in time as she rolled her eyes.

"Sherlock -" John began, but Edlyn cut him off with a short chuckle.

"It's alright, John. Thank you for the tea and the company." She had her coat on and was putting on her first glove as she took a step toward the entry way of the kitchen, seeing the stoic detective hunched over the table with photos spread over the surface where scientific equipment wasn't already occupying the space, "Sherly." He made a short, grunting noise of disgust, but what intrigued John was that Sherlock had even responded at all. He waited for Edlyn to turn and head for the stairs, he'd see her out - but then her brows drew together, her focus stuck on the photos on the table top, and she asked, "What's that?"

"Nothing that requires your concern." Sherlock, ever the child, just as immature as he was brilliant, snatched up the photographs as Edlyn stepped further into the kitchen.

"Current case?" she wondered, leaning onto her toes to peer over his shoulder when he put the pictures on the counter top by the sink.

She hopped up twice before Sherlock gave a gravelly answer and demand of, "Leave."

John just stood back and watched. Amused and growing ever-more intrigued with each passing moment. "No, wait!" Edlyn insisted, tugging and shoving at Sherlock's arm and shoulders, and much to John's surprise the tall man relented and the girl rushed over the photos; she stuck her finger to the corner of one, John couldn't tell which from his angle, so he made his way closer as he heard her say, "I know that guy."

"No, you don't. He's homeless," Sherlock shot back, "None of _your_ clientele are-"

Edlyn's sharp sigh ceased Sherlock's words as she cut in, "You know **every** homeless person in London, Sherlock. In your little network - web - whatever you call it." She gestured, rolling her eyes off to the side in a manner that reminded John of the eldest Holmes sibling, "Is this guy part of it?" She tapping her finger heavily onto the photograph. And now John could see five clear shots of a raggedy man in motion, leaving a condemned looking building and strolling down the street before taking a seat against the wall of a store front, looking every bit of pitiful and hopeful to gain pocket change from strangers. "Do you recall bribing him?" Edlyn asked, rhetoric, it seemed, since she continued on with barely a beat for Sherlock to respond, "No, because he's not homeless, that man is -," she paused, when she picked up the first photo and was immediately distracted by another, "Well, look, you've got his picture right here." She grabbed the new image, turning it around in her hands to present both photos side by side to Sherlock, "_This man_," she raised the homeless man's picture slightly, "is this man," she raised the other photo, which was the one submitted by the woman whose husband was missing, "Richard Portson." She named him, and John could recall that surname, or something similar to it; how did she -?

"No. Mr. Portson was reported missing three days ago by his wife, she saw _this man_," Sherlock took a photo with far more aggression than needed, "_**this**__ homeless_ man leaving the building she believed her husband to be held hostage in." He yanked the photo of Portson from Edlyn's grip too, leaving the girl empty handed. She crossed her arms, finally the detective's attitude rousing something out of her other than amusement. Actual opposite of amused, it appeared. "This John Doe is in custody for the kidnapping and -"

"Oh, my god!" Edlyn burst, and brought her hands to the sides of her face, "Look! Sherlock, really look!" She took the photos and brought them to the table top again, John and Sherlock followed, and under proper lighting, she gestured with both hands between the photographs, "_The eyes are the windows to the soul_," she mused dryly, she was far more irritated than John had seen her as of yet, "These two men share the same soul. They're the same person. You've got your noticings, logic, and sciences to figure out how unlikely it is for two people to look so alike in the same city - or something like that, I don't know how your mind works, but you _know better_, Sherlock," she said and slammed her palms down once and spun away, fingers tapping at her chin while John and Sherlock poured over the photos. John let out a huff of impressed delight, and turned to see Edlyn muttering to herself, and once again he could see the similarities she'd picked up from her older siblings, "Portson's on parole, though. The only time he panhandles is when he can't make a payment or he's stolen money or a cut of the stuff from the -" she abruptly cut herself off when both John and Sherlock's attention were trained on her, John's eyes wide, and Sherlock's raising a single inquisitive brow.

"I've got to make a call." Both her hands dove into her coat pockets, in search of her phone. She fished it out and, getting a finger tip of her right hand glove between her teeth, she pulled it off, mumbling between clenched teeth, "Phone Lestrade or whoever's got Portson contained," she took the glove from her mouth and her fingers flew over the virtual keyboard. "Take off the prosthetic nose, the facial hair, clean the dirt and grime off," she instructed as she hit something on her screen with a final press of her thumb before swiping around some more and bringing the phone to her ear; she started away from the kitchen, moving down the hall toward Sherlock's room, "You can't charge a man for his own kidnapping and/or murder, that's going to look absolutely ridiculous in a report."

Sherlock called after her, though his own thumbs were moving feverishly over his own phone, "How do you even know this man?"

"Just do it, Sherlock!"

Distantly John could pick up a few words, her voice raising now and again as she explained about a metric ton (and he wasn't sure if that was accurate or sarcasm) of cocaine hitting the streets of London within the next 48 hours, also something about a search warrant and paying a visit to Marsaloni's, Dobnia's and Ralph's, as well as Portson's -that's where they'll find the missing percentage. There was a pause, then her voice again, scoffing as she replied, saying she'd _talked_ to Portson before ("Sang like a prima donna."), she knew this was going down and they needed to stop it before a new batch of drugs started selling on street corners and dark alley ways, and new addicts were created and more crimes committed.

From beside him he could see Sherlock sending a final text before storing his phone in his jacket pocket. Edlyn's voice was drawing nearer, though she was still on her call, "You'll thank me later," she said with an air of smugness, "Oh, and let's give the credit to the boys at Scotland Yard. I've been back little less than a week, I don't really - Yeah. Yes. And Sherlock helped, too. Just slightly, yes." She was strolling into the kitchen by then, sending a wink their way, and John saw Sherlock puff out an indignant sigh, walking away to remove and hang up his coat.

Edlyn hung up with a cheerful - Thanks, bye! And deflated with a content sigh, shoving her phone into her coat pocket, stuffing her hands in as well, "Mystery solved. Congratulations, Mr. Holmes, you've done it again," she smirked smally around her words as she headed toward the stairs through the kitchen. She popped around the corner, in the other doorway, "And - you're welcome."

Sherlock didn't respond, just a mere disapproving grunt from the back of his throat.

"I'd approach Mrs. Portson carefully, seeing as her house is about to rooted through for a sizable amount of drugs and her husband is going back to prison," Edlyn called as she made her way down the stairs. The front door opened and with a final, "Bye!" it softly closed shut, and the flat was left in silence.

For once, the quiet didn't drag on long enough in Sherlock's opinion, because when John piped up, he asked, "You don't _really_ hate her, do you?"

Sherlock dug his nails into his palms; he growled, "I detest her."

.

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Note: So hey! I guess this story is slowly happening. I think with the chapters being so short, it makes it easier to update? So... Character development. I'm not so great with that, and I'm not trying to make Edlyn some super genius that's exactly like Sherlock (but I'm not trying to make her dullard either!), because I think we can all agree that Sherlock is one of a kind, yes? Irene was sort of the girl version of him, which was good, and yes, and all the things. But I'm not trying to create another Irene Adler. I say, I'm not _trying_ to.  
Anyway. A mystery solved! And I based it off of a story from Sir ACD [that looks horribly informal, holy crap], so yeeah.

Once again thanks to LaraFinja for another delightful review. As well as those that have decided to follow.

Disclaimer: I own nothing - nothing at all!


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock sulked for four days straight after that case was solved and he didn't get any sort of recognition. Of course John put it in the blog, but still, Sherlock hadn't actually solved the case. His... _sister_... did. Though, shortly after, he had a case that took up two days of his time he still balked and sighed and groaned and John could definitely detect the scent of cigarettes heavily coming off of Sherlock in waves when the detective arrived back and flopped onto the sofa, face first.

It seriously reeked. John would prefer the odor of Seven Minute Cigar to the stink of cheap fags, but he hadn't heard or seen much of Edlyn in the past few days. Her texts were far and few between, but were just as friendly and humourous.

Just as the smell was starting to get to him, he recalled - just as a sound of life emitted from the sofa cushions - that Sherlock was on day... four... or was it five, with no food. And from the smell of it he'd been smoking... well, a lot. Nicotine poisoning. Oh, boy, John's thoughts groaned, he wouldn't be able to make an escape from the stink, because he'd have to stick around and care for his ridiculous, self-hazardous flatmate. The nausea and sweating he could deal with, the vomiting was, in any case, regardless of who it was, unpleasant.

But then, just as John stood to tend to the detective, the man moved his face from the cushions and wheezed, grumbling; his mouth still half way pressed into fabric, his words were garbled. "Say again?" John asked, though he was sure it would just be nonsensical details of the case he'd missed, and he'd be putting that into the blog too... once he made sense of it.

"She kissed me. Did I ever tell you that?"

John perked up. "What? That - what?"

"_She_ did, John."

John rose from the desk and approached slowly, perching himself on the edge of the coffee table, "A woman from the case? In gratitude, probably."

"No, not from the case, John. Not a woman - the woman."

The doctor paused, stalled in thought, did he mean - ? "You mean... You mean, Irene?"

"No! No, not _that_ woman! The other one!" Sherlock slurred and turned his head, his face lolling off the edge, he was talking to the floor, basically. He must've not slept either. No food or sleep for the last few days - yes, he was do for a good long crash... But while he was out of it and blabbering, John was going to get as much as he could out of him. Did that make him a bad friend? Of course not, Sherlock was a far worse friend.

"The woman - the - my -," Sherlock stammered, "Edy."

"Edlyn." John's spine straightened, surprise shooting through his bones. A nickname. A nickname that Sherlock actually used. John wasn't sure if he could take this as accurate information, but he'd take what he could get. "Edlyn, your sister?"

Sherlock groaned long and low, "Yes..."

"She... She kissed you?"

The detective hummed, and it was then that John saw his eyes weren't even opened, that he probably wasn't even conscious at all, probably wasn't since he'd face planted onto the sofa. "Christmas break. I was..." he dragged out the sound of the 's' as he pondered, "Fifteen and she was twelve years old. The girl has no shame, I tell you. She came to me and said, out of Mother's and the other guests range of hearing and sight - she said - _Mistletoe can be deadly if you eat it, but a kiss can be even deadlier if you meant it_."

John snorted softly at the rhyme, and the way Sherlock's features scrunched up, "What does that even mean? I mean, I understand the mistletoe part, of course. But, I don't -" he broke off with a sigh, "Doesn't matter. The point is she kissed me, then. That stupid poisonous plant twisting between her fingers, she caught me, got me against the wall and kissed me. It was strange, it was my first, and I... I doubt it was hers, given how confidently she performed. And she scampered off, skipped away to play the innocent, sweet daughter like she hadn't..." Sherlock's mouth twisted into a frown, his brows twitching upward in the middle, the look all together appeared like a strange mixture of emotions, burned and angered. "Like she hadn't assaulted me."

John rolled his eyes, "Sherlock, she was twelve years old. She didn't mean anything -"

"Didn't she, though? You don't know her, John, you don't _really_."

"Then tell me about her."

"I..." John waited with bated breath, waited for Sherlock to spill, spill ever more, flood completely, even. "I can't."

The doctor deflated, and sighed softly. "Alright. Come on. Off to bed with you."

With practiced ease John was able to escort Sherlock to his room, strip him of his coat and shoes, and pull a sheet over him before making his leave and doing any final chores before heading to bed himself; it was getting late after all.

"That was only the beginning. She's a demon, John," Sherlock murmured, "She's not a real person. You can't trust her. You've got to believe me."

"Yes, alright. I won't trust a girl who kissed you when you were kids," John agreed like he was talking to a child... which... in actuality is what he felt like he was doing most of the time.

"That's not all she did..." John barely heard Sherlock mumble, and he raised a brow, glancing at his friend bathed in soft lamp light. "You don't - you don't -" Sherlock's murmuring lulled himself to sleep. And John was left to ponder.

If he knew the right questions to ask, he recalled Edlyn say, he could fit new pieces into this bizarre puzzle that was the Holmes ever-intriguing past...

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Disclaimer: Do not own any of the things.


	7. Chapter 7

When John texted Edlyn the next morning, asking if she'd kissed Sherlock when they were kids, a smooth segue - since they were talking about Sherlock's last case, and him and his inability to care for himself, and nicotine poisoning (the main symptoms of which presented themselves at the fine, fine hour of two in the morning - loud, echoing retching) - he hadn't expected her to reply so curtly with a simple, '_Yep_'.

Followed swiftly by a follow-up comment of, '_Ain't half bad either, if I do say so myself_.'

And again, before John could reply, another came, '_And I mean me, not Sherlock - he was rubbish_.'

John chortled out loud, unable to smother it in his throat. But he quickly covered it up as a choking cough - like a sip of coffee had gone down the wrong pipe - and tucked his phone away when he heard the click of Sherlock's door give and creak open, followed by the shuffling of the detective himself. Wrapped up in his bed sheet, Sherlock mumbled something about quitting smoking, and what was that expression again? - cold turkey - he was going cold turkey and he needed John's full support in this, otherwise he wouldn't be able to do it (how was he supposed to work at his proper functioning level [better than everyone else] when he was incapacitated by a silly illness? Clearly the cigarettes were a nuisance that had to go - lest he get sloppy in his work).

It was endearing in the way that Sherlock let himself believe that he was letting John believe that John's participation really mattered in this. John was starting to understand how Sherlock worked, when to take offence, when not to. But if it was his help he wanted, it was his help he'd get. The task of getting Sherlock back to health would be simple, his body wasn't something that was - scientifically speaking - normal; convincing him to pay off all the shops to not sell him cigarettes within a ten mile radius of Baker Street was surprisingly simple as well. But what astounded John the most was when he'd mentioned Edlyn, asking if he should pay her off, too, Sherlock had only replied sharply that he never liked those little cigars she smoked anyway. But the slightly offhand (totally intentional) comment was a test to see if Sherlock remembered what he'd said the previous night, see if he'd try to take it back if he did remember, if it was true. But it seemed that the detective didn't recall regaling John with stories of yesteryear and his first kiss he'd shared with his adopted sister during Christmas. A kiss that apparently wasn't very good.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pressed a hand over it while Sherlock was tittering away in the kitchen - making coffee or breakfast, or going straight to his microscope, John wasn't sure, but he risked pulling out his phone all the same.

Just as he was about to tap into his text inbox he heard the voice of his flatmate far more close than he'd anticipated, "She's a smoker, John. You don't like girls who smoke."

John jumped, heart pounding at having been caught, but irritated at the assumption that Sherlock knew his type. "Is that right? And how would you know?" He slipped his phone back into his pocket.

"Observation. Pattern. None of the others have," Sherlock explained brusquely as he sat in his chair, crisscrossing his legs beneath him, swathed in his bed sheet, he had his mug in one hand, blowing on the liquid before sipping, "Clearly you like women with oral fixations of a different variety."

The doctor blanched from his spot on the sofa; side swiped, down for the count - how Sherlock had noticed _that_ in his previous girlfriends he did _not_ want to know - but he didn't stay down for long, "Yeah, and none of the others could handle _you_," John muttered dryly, standing from the couch, he downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp as he headed to the kitchen.

"Hang on," John said, rinsing out his mug and setting in the sink. He spun around to lean against the counter top, a look of sincerity on his face that was crackling at the edges, "Maybe this is it. Maybe she's the one. I'll propose to her the next time I see her. We'll all be family, then."

Sherlock, not one to be fazed, replied lowly with his seemingly new favourite phrase, "Don't be ridiculous."

John laughed, someone had to, and went toward the sofa again, picking up the newspaper from the coffee table before he got comfortable again, "For someone who supposedly hates their sister, you're quite protective."

"I'm not protective of _her_."

"Really. So why are you trying to keep me away from her?" John settled back onto the sofa, comfortable again.

"She's a blight, John. I'm saving you the inevitable heartache. She's cold-blooded, thick skinned, and awful."

"Right," John said, a smirk picking up one side of his lips, "Does she breathe fire as well?" He was answered with an unimpressed sound, and he laughed again. But since they were on the Edlyn Winsome topic, "So, in theory, I **could** date her, and you wouldn't care. You'd just be glad to say, 'Told you so', if it doesn't work out." John glanced up then, since Sherlock was devolving to his wordless replies earlier than usual today. But before Sherlock could reply the sound of the door being flung open, followed by it clattering shut, then a voice accompanied by quick steps coming up the stairs kept him silent.

"Don't worry, I'm just here for updates." Speak of the devil. Edlyn walked in, looking as casual as ever, peeling off her coat and hooking it on the rack. She shrugged, taking off her gloves that weren't really necessary given the weather conditions, and put them in the pocket of her coat, "Mycroft worries, Mother doesn't worry, but she appreciates information."

She smiled at John and he returned it before bracing himself for the worst after she'd stalked over the open seat - his chair - opposite Sherlock, and fell into it with ridiculous grace. Legs hanging over the arm, she smiled at John once more before sending that same pleasant look to Sherlock. The detective opened his mouth. And here it comes - John was already wincing.

But yet again, these Holmes children had a way of catching John off guard. Curt, but not rude.

"What _are_ you doing back home." Sherlock's questions were hardly ever verbally punctuated as questions, "From what I gather your work is strictly international."

"Is _that_ what you gather?" Edlyn retorted with a slow spreading pleased grin, "Drives you mad not knowing what me and Myc get up to at work, doesn't it?" Her eyes glittered with mischief and amusement, and a hint of danger, if John saw correctly.

Sherlock cast his glance toward the fire place, touching the fingers of each hand together before his face, "I don't let it consume me," he answered blandly. And John, he mentally patted himself on the back, didn't let out a snort - that was basis of Sherlock working - utter and total consumption of the detective. Body, mind... soul?

"Much," Edlyn quipped in a soft cough, and John smirked. "Believe it or not, England is my vacation. I'm on a stay-at-a-home-holiday," she explained, her eyes fixed on the yellow smiley on the wall for a moment, her gaze slid down to land on John before swinging back to Sherlock, eyeing him from the side of her vision, "Though I did spend quite a bit of time with an interesting character in Mombasa."

Sherlock gave her a significant look then, and John was surprised to actually witness some kind of wordless sibling communication - for a brief moment his mind was occupied by the idea of baby Sherlock and baby Edlyn taking bubble baths together, maybe even playing make-believe like they were pirates together, but then the reality set in, and he remembered that not only was Sherlock three years old than her, but she became a Holmes at nine years old; still it was an adorable thought he could toy with - a moment later Edlyn clicked her tongue in something of distaste or boredom, along with a roll of her eyes before saying, "No, I wasn't falsely connected to any murders this time."

Aw, sibling communicat- W-wait! Wait - this time? _This_ _**time**_?! The exclamation was apparently obvious to read on John's face, Edlyn leaned forward, hooking her arms around her knees to look at the stunned doctor on the sofa, "I'm a peace keeper of sorts, John. Don't worry." She winked and then fell back into her limbs-all-about position, poised indelicately over John's chair. "But as I was saying about that character. Told me about the goings-on back in London a while ago, the trouble my brothers had gotten themselves into, caused by her meddlesome antics, of course." She grinned when John's spine straightened, he noted her observation skills were probably quite keen in the range of Sherlock's - always savvy to the reactions she gained from certain things she'd say - "Charming woman," she concluded.

Sherlock's reaction - a partially disinterested huff - wasn't all that entertaining, "So you met Miss Adler - god, that must've been one for the books - and you didn't arrest her?"

Edlyn looked affronted, sitting up into a semi-decent position, "Of course not, she's an utter delight! And I had other tasks to tend to, she wasn't a primary objective, and besides," she shrugged one shoulder, "She's harmless."

"Sorry," John scoffed a laugh, "You **did** say you met _Irene Adler_, right?"

"Mm, yes," Edlyn hummed with a faux-contemplative look, "Probably two months together," she spun back to Sherlock, "She told me about the clothing optional visit to the palace - you honestly couldn't be bothered to at least put pants on? I'd thought you'd outgrown your strikes against clothes, Sherly."

Sherlock didn't dignify that with an answer, just a bounce of his eyebrows paired with a short roll of his eyes, but she grinned at the small reaction anyway.

John exploded, gaining both their attentions again, "Then you know that she is **not** harmless!"

Edlyn mimicked Sherlock's previous unimpressed eyebrow bounce and eye roll, "So she's got a penchant for dealing out recreational... scoldings. It's not like she's killing anybody. And we are aware that she's a professional. Voluntary, expressed consent, safety first and such."

John snorted, standing up from the sofa, "Then obviously she didn't tell you the whole story."

"Oh, no. She gave every little detail." And there was that mischievous glint in her eye again, but somehow it seemed far more sinister, different enough that John knew it was in a classification all it's own when even Sherlock seemed to be set uncomfortable by it by the way he shifted in his chair and glanced back to the mantel piece. Edlyn's grin didn't dissipate, "She's not a bad person, John. She's just well adapted to the world."

For a moment he was stunned; more than a few moments, actually. He couldn't believe that Edlyn, this person he'd thought to be this amazing new breed of woman, someone who could handle and tame Sherlock Holmes, was on the side of a psychotic dominatrix. And she was the British government, even! What - "Oh," he said softly as it clicked in his mind, "Oh, please tell me she didn't get any secret government information out of you, too."

"Oh, of course not, no," she laughed, but especially when John deflated in relief. "I keep work and play separate... most of time." Now if that wasn't fodder for late night texting later, John wasn't sure what was. Edlyn rearranged herself to finally sit properly in the chair, speaking as she did, "She did teach me some interesting new tricks for work, though. You know, a few odds and ends that could be beneficial. _Oh, but you don't know, that's right_. I almost forgot. And I'm not telling you either," she winked with a flash of teeth that was something of pure evil. Sherlock's eyes crinkled at the corners, his mouth quirking up in mock-amusement. And she laughed, slightly bitter, slightly delighted, "Every master - or in this case mistress - needs an apprentice."

"Oh god," Sherlock grumbled.

"Oh god, yes," she pointed at him shortly, correcting him like he needed correcting. "But don't fret, I'm not changing careers, though I am quite the quick learner." Once again, that could've been an invitation but how was John - how was anyone to know for sure? She cleared her throat after a few moments of silence, "Anyway, last I heard she went through a little identity change and took up residence in America."

John tried a look of nonchalance, making sure not to gain eye contact with Sherlock, lest his work with gently telling him his GIRLFRIEND wasn't really in America living under a new identity and was really dead, was executed, in fact. In all his work to avoid the uncomfortable or a slip-up, John missed the wink Edlyn sent Sherlock, and the brief knowing smirk Sherlock shared with her.

"Yes, I heard that, too," Sherlock responded. Both Holmes' expressions were schooled before John looked back. Edlyn nodded slowly, letting the quiet drag on a little longer.

"Well!" she finally broke and dropped her hands against the arm rests in a heavy pat before propelling herself upward and to her feet, "You look like you're doing well. So I'd better be off."

"Actually, I think weren't invited to begin with," Sherlock's tone oozed politeness through heavy sarcasm.

"_Actually_," Edlyn mocked, putting her coat on, "I texted John asking if it was alright and I didn't get a response so I was forced to believe the worst had happened - ain't hard to believe when one's had a look through John Watson's blog - so I had to check up on all of you. And you're both fine. Mrs. Hudson's out, I assume. So I'll just be on my way." With her coat on, void of gloves (still shoved in her pockets), she sighed, contented, even though her parting words were a jab at the detective, "Shall I send Mother love from you, Sherly? Wonderful."

The door opened, then closed with a soft slam.

John barely let the tension from his shoulders, barely let out another exhale when - "Told you so," Sherlock's voice was tinted with amusement.

The tension settled right back in. _Damn know-it-alls_. He grabbed his coat from the rack, and made sure his wallet was in it before he decided - yeah, it was about time for some shopping.

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Disclaimer: Still don't own anything!


	8. Chapter 8

Cases were far and few between, going by John's blog updates. Just the occasional case of someone missing something or someone that was easily found. More often than not Sherlock found the elementary cases trivial and annoying more than anything else. In the detective's not so humble opinion there was absolutely nothing to do, and he was fit to burst with boredom...

But then Edlyn would drop by the flat now and again, and surprisingly, the whining would cease... And if John's deducing skills were atuned - though not nearly as sharp as Sherlock's - he would say the detective actually enjoyed his sister's company. There was that certain _different_ kind of arrogance. It was something nearly playful as they tried to one-up each other. A half-told story shared between them; usually Edlyn recalling something and Sherlock making a noise of ascent, sometimes smirking, sometimes just the noise, and sometimes even a brief bark of laughter. It was startling, though very, very refreshing and welcomed to John's ears (and sanity).

There were still things kept in the dark. John knew there were things he didn't know; things he wasn't sure he wanted to know. But by just looking at the pair, he was struck with such curiosity he couldn't help himself from wanting to dig deeper. There was the way Edlyn's smile would change from pleased to wicked, that mischievous glint in her eyes became a little darker, and it appeared to directly effect Sherlock. For every shift, every minute little action from Edlyn, there was a direct reaction from Sherlock. He'd turn his gaze away from her, focus on something in the opposite direction, generally just avert his sight from her. He'd cross his legs, change position, or even get up entirely and walk away, appearing nonplussed while Edlyn's gaze stayed scorching hot on him. John wasn't sure what to make of it. He had nothing to go on besides a kiss when they were kids. Surely nothing else had happened, nothing had escalated... surely.

After all, Sherlock was a virgin... or at least virginal. Um, celibate... Again, John couldn't be sure of what information was concrete and speculation. But he did know there was much more than met the eye concerning those two...

Edlyn hadn't visited in a week and John could tell it was getting to Sherlock. After every visit he'd murmur something about her being a blight, but every time she'd show up a straightness would come to his spine, and his eyes seemed to shine a little brighter. It reminded John of his sister [still not really on the greatest terms, never was and probably never would be (any attempts were purely Harry's doing), but] he should give her a ring, check up on her. Note to self.

But Sherlock seemed to put on a front concerning his sister. A front for whom? John and Edlyn? Himself? Who knew. Nevertheless John could tell he liked her far better than he liked Mycroft. But how far that liking extended, that's what John wanted to know.

With no visits from the red headed Holmes and the boredom finally getting to Sherlock John found himself alone in the flat the next morning. Nothing unusual... That is until Sherlock arrived back with a harpoon in hand, the instrument and the man himself covered and reeking of blood; poised triumphant and slightly winded in the doorway, John's eyes widened at the sight.

"You went on the tube like that?!"

"None of the cabs would take me."

John's anxiety lessened, pulse slowed when Sherlock excused himself for a shower - and thank god for that, John mused to himself. If he'd have to fight with the detective like he was a rambunctious, filth covered child not keen on bathing... God, he didn't even want to think of it. Just a glimpse of the idea was exhausting. He wondered if Edlyn had experienced any other sort of 'strikes' from Sherlock, since she'd mentioned a ''strike against clothes''. Maybe she'd have a few pointers on how to really wrangle Sherlock. He snorted at the imagery of Sherlock as a restless horse and Edlyn as a sort of charmer.

He didn't dwell on the image for long when his phone pinged the arrival of a new message. A photo message to be exact.

He opened the message and a smile split his face in two. The girl on his mind not three seconds ago lit up his screen, a paper crown adorned her head, poorly applied and way, way too much makeup covered her face, as well as plastic jewelry around her neck, wrists and fingers. She looked - well, she looked positively wrecked - but she looked happy all the same, if not slightly tired. Clearly she was in the hands of children, and it was confirmed by the little caption attached to the photo: I can't imagine how much better I'd look if I was looking over twin boys instead o_O.

John snorted and responded, '_You look positively lovely, my compliments to the artists_'.

A reply came shortly after, '_Ha ha, John, you're hilarious. That was last night. I'm fearful of what they'll have in store for me today. I'm not sure if I'll survive another two days of this_'.

His phone vibrated and pinged again.

_'So any cases? I see the blog hasn't been updated recently.'_

_'He's just solved something, the details will be murky, I'm sure, but, uh - oh - the telltale clanging on the pipes, shower must be over. I'll keep you posted.'_

_'Much obliged, my good man. And I didn't even have to bribe you!'_

John chuckled aloud, texting back he could hear Sherlock's grumblings from within his room. Potentially problematic, he categorized that sort of grumbling.

_'That's how I met Mycroft, actually.'_

John could practically hear Edlyn's jovial laughter in her almost immediate response of,_ 'OMG REALLY?! HA!' _He smirked at his phone's screen, glancing up shortly when he heard Sherlock's bare feet padding against the wood floor. He looked back again, seeing Sherlock wasn't empty handed, he still had the harpoon. Dear lord. He was anxious, wouldn't sit down, looking out the window, shifting from foot to foot, pacing - today would undoubtedly be exciting, trying to lull his adult sized toddler into a state of calmness again.

_'Well appears he's about to have a fit, better put the kettle on.'_

_'Good luck, John. I'm just a phone call away, remember :)'_

.

Edlyn set her phone down after a minute without another text from John or anyone else. Truth be told she preferred John's texts over anyone else's, they always made her laugh, made her happy; whereas other texts usually meant business. And she was on holiday! The nerve of those people texting her about work. She didn't linger long on the unpleasant thought, she couldn't when two identical six year old girls approached her giggling and grabbing.

"Edy, c'mon!" Leia (she could tell that one was Leia, there was a freckle on the tip of her nose, where her sister, Hana, did not have one - and thank bloody goodness for that indicator, else she'd gone insane years ago without it) tugged on her hand, using all the effort she could muster, Hana doing the same, with her other hand.

"Oh, dear. Let's not do another princess makeover just yet, alright?" Edlyn pleaded pitifully.

"No, it's time for second breakfast!" Hana exclaimed, breaking off into a peal of giggles. Leia joined in with her sister and Edlyn couldn't help herself from giggling with/at the pair, as well.

She snorted, standing up from the sofa, "Your parents definitely should've considered naming you after hobbits rather than their favourite Star Wars couple."

The girls shrieked with laughter, trailing after Edlyn as they headed for the kitchen, wondering if they could watch Lord of the Rings later, "But skip over the scary parts!"

"But don't skip over Legless!"

"That's Legolas, darling."

"Oh, right..."

Yes, she could handle another few days of this. Girly, sibling banter about who was whose fictional boyfriend, playing pretend and just general over eating. Yep... She could totally do this. That's what holidays were about... right? Had to be far better than whatever John was dealing with. But as far as she was concerned, it wasn't too bad, since her phone wasn't trilling it's text notification noise or actually ringing with a call. So it was onward with second breakfast and a Lord of the Rings marathon! Relaxation at it's best, in Edlyn's opinion... That is... until her phone actually did ring.

From a caller she least expected.

It was rather late, too. Far later than she realized, and the girls were still awake - whoops - but she scrambled, tripped, swore and nearly missed the call entirely in her catastrophic haste to pick up. [And she didn't have any time to laugh and properly enjoy her new ringtone for that particular contact - Primadonna. _Priceless_.]

"Sherly! Fancy getting a ring from you!" she answered, laughter in her voice while she tried to get a handle on her breathing again, steady her heart, and hoped his phone hadn't pocket dialed her again.

But no. After a few long moments of silence there was... There was a shuddering breath on the line, and it sounded... whimpered... scared, even...

"Sherlock..?"

.

.

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"...Edlyn."

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Disclaimer: I do not own ANYTHING!


	9. Chapter 9

"Sherlock, what's wrong? Talk to me."

It was ridiculous to Sherlock how just the sound of her voice settled his nerves, not tremendously so, but more than enough for him to get his bearings back, realise things. He could recall the times before when her worry laced voice had touched his ears, as well as the expression that matched it - eyes wide, scared, brows quirked upward, drawing toward the middle, her lips parted when she was worried, he noticed, just slightly. And she wasn't shy about getting physical if need be. Slaps to the face were light, but the more her concern grew, the harder the slaps would become. But he didn't have that now, couldn't have that now; all he had was her voice and that was -

There was rustling in the background, and a couple of complaining voices; one he could hear quite clearly urging, "Come on! The dragon's going to get us! You've got to help us, Lady Oakenshield!"

"Just two seconds, sweetheart," Edlyn hushed the child softly, "Sherlock," she addressed him again, and there was that pleasant, but annoying swoopy feeling of comfort again, "Please talk to me," she begged.

But he could still hear the bickering of children in the background, "What are -" his voice croaked, and he detested the way he almost sounded like a slurring drunkard, "Where are you?"

"Brighton, babysitting," she answered shortly, simply, "What are - where are you?" Sherlock's eyes rolled up into his head, she never missed a moment to mock him, "But more importantly what the hell is wrong, you sound strange. Is everything alright at Baker Street?"

"Most likely," he replied, glad his voice was solid again, well, solid enough, "I'm not there so I don't know for sure, but Mrs. Hudson is capable of taking care of herself."

"You're not at Baker Street? Jesus, where the hell are you? Is this another bender? Shit, Sherlock, did you -" she halted her words abruptly, and for a few moments he could hear her muffled explanation to the children that she needed just another minute, just a minute alone and she'd be back, she promised. Children were so peculiar. What did a promise even mean. What was the appeal. What -

Sherlock's musings were hauled to a stop by Edlyn's voice on the line again, "Did you go to that dealer again, Sherlock, I swear to god if you've seen Jeremy again, I will personally drag his sorry arse right back to his prison cell-"

"No. No, it's not that. It's not -" he sighed, hating the sound of his own voice, preferring the sound of hers, but not when it was like that, not when she was angry, "It's - it's, uh," he was at a loss. He didn't want to admit he was scared, terrified, even, he didn't want to tell her what he'd seen and that it had scared him. He just - no. He didn't want that. He didn't even know why he'd called her. He'd sent John off, having a proper tantrum for all the staff and guests to hear. God, fear was an awful thing. But he'd called her... Why had he...? Probably because he - well at least deep down he - it wasn't something he'd openly admit but he... trusted her.

In truth, they had been through quite a lot together. Strangely, he'd been there for her many more times than she really needed him, during their stay at their childhood home. And he supposed, something in him was calling out for that, seeking her company like... like when they were younger... closer.

He remembered such an occurrence, and a soft chuckle left his throat, "Do you remember the time when the power had gone out... Mother and Mycroft were gone, I should've been gone too, but I wasn't. You were horrified that you had gone blind."

She hummed a sound of affirmation before defending herself, "It was still a relatively new house to me. A gargantuan house, mind you. But you found me when I called."

"It took us thirty-six minutes to find candles."

"I was nine years old. I remember," she murmured, "Why are you telling me this, Sherlock..."

He paused, swallowing audibly. He'd forgotten the point of the bringing up the memory; momentarily lost in it, remembering the feeling of a much younger Edlyn holding tightly to him like he was a hero, her small hands clutching onto one of his. He wasn't normally one that desired physically touch but -

Sherlock shook away the thought before it dared complete itself in his mind. He forced himself back on track, "You were scared of the dark. The sudden enveloping darkness. Scared of what you couldn't see..."

She didn't speak, didn't make any sort of noise, just kept quiet, waited for him to continue.

"I... I've..." It was hard to say, hard to believe, and hard to fight against the tremble in his voice, "I think I'd rather prefer the dark, I... I saw something... Edy, something I couldn't explain, couldn't understand, couldn't -" he pulled in quick shaking breath, "It - it - it doesn't make any sense, it doesn't - it was - it -"

"It scared you," she said, and Sherlock felt like such a fool nodding against his phone - she couldn't see nor hear him nodding.

"Yes," he admitted, "It's this monstrous hound, in Dartmoor, that's where we are - John and I were visited by a man this morning, and we obviously took the case, and I - and I'm, uh, I'm not so sure if I can -"

"Sherlock, there's always light," Edlyn interrupted, and he was confused into silence for a few beats.

"What?"

"That's what you told me. When the lights went out. You said, '_Silly girl, stop sniveling, there's always light, you've just got to find it_'. Be it candles, a torch, the stars or the moon, there was light. I needed you, you were the light before the light, I was just too young and scared to search on my own... You **can** solve this case, Sherlock. You just need to find your light."

"But you're not here."

Sherlock's eyes fell closed, embarrassment flooded his entire being, he wanted to kick himself for making such a ridiculously childish admission. He anticipated the laughter that would burst from the other end, but it never came. Instead he heard a slight inhale before her voice sounded again, gentle and sweet.

"I've never heard you say you weren't sure about something, and I never want to hear you say it again. You are an impressive human being - sometimes I wonder if you actually are human, the way you solve things, the way you always get it right. You _can_ solve this. Find your light, find your anchor, use some Spock logic to get you on the level, then solve this... and come home."

That must've been why he called her, he thought.

"I will."

.

"I know he's a bloody idiot sometimes, well, most of the time, well -"

"I get your point."

"John, he says some horrible things, but you've got to remember, he's not like us. He's like a machine, he _thinks_ he doesn't feel emotions, and when he does feel them it spooks him, and his internal hard drive starts to overheat and an emergency shut down is imminent, but before that happens he'll spout out error messages - unkind messages, I mean. Is this computer metaphor doing anything for you, because I'm not hearing laughter, should I keep going?"

"No, no, I get what you mean," John chuckled lightly, "I should be used to it by now, but..." he sighed, and he knew just through that Edlyn would understand - sometimes he gets to you.

"How bad was he?" Edlyn wondered.

John scrubbed a hand over his face, puffing out another long suffering sigh before saying, "Not sure what you've dealt with, but I'd never seen him like that before. He was shaking, trembling, eyes glossy, snappy and speaking a mile a minute. Like a lunatic."

Edlyn hummed in understanding from other line, "So on our Crisis Colour Scale...?"

The doctor smirked, looking up in thought as he consulted the system the youngest Holmes had created (over a decade ago, it seemed this system had already been in practice for quite some time) in order to define and contain meltdowns and tantrums. "Mauve," he finally said, "Basically off the charts."

"Good god, man!" the girl sounded like an affronted aristocrat, causing laughter to bubble out of John again, he hummed in acknowledgement and Edlyn's responding sigh crackled through the speaker. "Well, the sooner you wrap up the case the better. I so wish I could be of more help. If only the case were closer to London."

"Oh, don't worry about it, but like you said: the sooner, the better. So I best be off to investigate. Oh, and thank you for, you know, calling."

Edlyn chuckled then, "Well I figured from that rage text of 'YOUR BROTHER IS A BLOODY-MINDED ARSEHOLE!' that you sent last night and I unfortunately only saw this morning, you'd probably like to talk about it. And I should've known something was up between you two when _he_ called _me_. You're his trusted blogger, after all."

John emitted a short humourless laugh, "Curious, what did you two talk about?"

She gasped a truly scandalized gasp, "Spoilers, John." Then proceeded to break off into a fit of cackles, that quickly dissolved into terribly attractive hacking and coughing.

John rolled his eyes, said his thanks again and goodbye and tucked his phone away into his pocket. It seemed he wasn't any closer to solving his own Holmes mystery than he and Sherlock were close to solving the hound.

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* * *

Note: I am, unfortunately, not drunk (at this moment), so this might not be properly proof read and edited.

Did anyone else think Primadonna was the perfect ringtone for Sherlock in the last chapter? Come now! Let us analyze lyrics!

_You say that I'm kinda difficult _[Understatement! Right, John? Mrs. Hudson? Mycroft? Lestrade?]  
_But it's always someone else's fault_ [Anderson!]  
_Got you wrapped around my finger, babe _[Aren't we all?]  
_You can count on me to misbehave _[Oh, yes we can]  
_I know I've got a big ego_ [Hah!]  
_ I really don't know why it's such a big deal, though_  
_ And I'm sad to the core, core, core_ [and the wall feels his wrath]  
_Every day is a chore, chore, chore_ [BORED! Need cases!]  
_When you give, I want more, more, more _[Dead bodies!]  
_I wanna be adored_ [C'mon, that's really what he wants, right? Right, John? J_ooo_hn? JAWN!]

Anyway! I appreciate those who follow! [I'm talking to you, new followers! As well as those that have followed from the shaky beginning!] Much obliged! A review would be nice, but like I've said before, it's not necessary - I will put up chapters regardless of how many reviews I receive... or don't receive.

The next chapter should be interesting! Quite interesting indeed...

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, and I suppose I should disclaim Primadonna too. Yep! Don't own that either!


	10. Chapter 10

"Aerosol dispersal hallucinogens! How many times do I have to say it! It's not the same as -"

"Oh, it's close enough, Sherlock, it's drugs!"

"Oh, god! This again! Are we really doing this?! Again!?"

John was sat on the couch, cup of tea in hand, watching shot after shot the siblings dealt at each other. It was like a tennis match, John simply had to move his eyes back and forth between the two.

Mrs. Hudson had already dismissed herself, murmuring something about hating when they shouted like this, wishing they wouldn't do it so much. Whether she was still in the house or not John wasn't sure. But this battle was currently about drugs, past and present (involuntary) use. It seemed Edlyn was strongly against any recreational drug use, something that Sherlock was quite notorious for once upon a time.

It had begun as a retelling of what had occurred in Baskerville, which led to a recalling of Sherlock's old habits and the things Edlyn had seen and dealt with. Her disgusted tone seemed to spark the fuse, and soon Sherlock was off, exploding and the fight began.

It was remarkable, John thought, how different, yet similar they were. No blood relation, but the way they held themselves, their stances, gestures and voices. To anyone who didn't know they were siblings, John reckoned, they could be mistaken for a married couple.

"Whose drugs? Whose again? Oh, that's right! Yours, Sherlock! Not mine! Do you have any idea the amount of times I've covered for you! What I've done out of fear of the repercussions **you** might have faced!?"

"I never _asked_ **you** to do anything for me!"

John chuckled softly in the back of his throat, not that it mattered what volume he laughed it, it surely wouldn't go heard by the two in front of him. Not twenty minutes ago they were having a laugh, talking about the laboratory in Baskerville, when Sherlock had kicked John and Dr. Stapleton out.

_"Does he still do the mind palace thing?"_

_"Mhm."_

_"Oh, that's fun, isn't it? Have you ever watched?"_

_"Shut up, Edy."_

_"Haven't had the pleasure. Have you?"_

_"John, shut up."_

_"I have, in fact. Hilarious. I only wish I had captured it on film."_

_"Both of you! Shut up! Moving on!"_

"What the hell is so bloody funny, John?"

Whoops. John sobered up, chuckle dying in his throat, his smile wiped clean off his face. He quickly sipped up the last of his tea and made for the kitchen while he explained himself, "Nothing. Nothing, at all. Just... Well, Sherlock and I have been mistaken for a couple well... more times than I'd care to think about, but it's you two that really seem like the couple."

"Oh, yes, a prime example of a healthy relationship."

"I'd much rather be paired with John than _you_." John perked up just slightly at Edlyn's words. Her arms were crossed and her messy red bun flicked dangerously around when she snapped her face away from Sherlock's general direction.

"Well who's stopping you!?" Sherlock tossed his hands up and fled the room, grumbling something about his violin. Edlyn turned slowly, giving the brunet the two-fingered salute to his retreating figure. Children, they were like children. But John wasn't really focused on that.

"D'you mean that?" he wondered as he walked back into the room. Edlyn raised a single thin brow and John felt childish himself, then, when his cheeks warmed, "That you'd rather be paired with me?"

Her other brow climbed up her forehead to join the other, looking slightly shocked, her gaze flickered down to the floor and back to John's face, "Suppose I did."

John's heart thudded a little faster, "Would you like to -"

"Yes."

He chuckled, and again, when Edlyn's blush began to match her hair. The awkward silence and blushing was interrupted by an insistent buzzing along with four rapid pings signaling text message arrivals. Edlyn scrambled for her mobile in her bag on the coffee table, producing it she opened her screen and no longer than five seconds later her body slumped forward slightly as she let out a dejected groan, "This is a - I, um -" she muttered, stowing her phone in the back pocket of her jeans, "I'd better go, but uh," she said as she pulled her coat on and slung her bag's strap over her shoulder and toed her shoes back on.

"I'll pick a time and place?" John offered.

"Yes, please. Sorry to just run out, but -"

"Duty calls."

Edlyn grinned, "No rest for the wicked, I'm afraid. But I'll, uh, I'll see you, later?"

"Most definitely."

"Great," she beamed, and all was still for a few moments, until that colour started to flood her cheeks again, "So, um, bye."

John walked her downstairs and closed the door after her, after she said bye two more times, blushing wildly. He thought she was cute before, but she'd just breached a new level. Ascending the stairs John found Sherlock poised beside the fireplace, violin in hand and bow in the other, the latter swishing violently, nearly akin to a peeved cat's whipping tail, to and fro.

"Where's she gone."

Ah, those questions that didn't sound like questions. John chuckled inwardly, snatching up the newspaper from the coffee table before plopping down on the sofa, "Gone. Urgent texts."

"Mycroft..." Sherlock growled, and continuing with the agitated cat imagery, his tail and back would've bristled at that very moment. He flicked his bow in an aggressive movement once more before positioning the instrument and starting a slow, pleasant tune.

"We're going out."

John startled when the bow abruptly screeched against the strings. Looking over his paper briefly, he could see Sherlock's spine had gone rigid.

"What did you say?" the detective wondered, his tone breezy, quite the opposite of his current posture.

"Edlyn and I. We're going to go out," John replied nonchalantly, this was all for gathering data means (the badgering Sherlock, not the actual date, of course) - wanting to see his reaction, and so far it was proving interesting. "On a date."

Sherlock's back eased into something less strict, vertebrae but vertebrae, before he coolly muttered, "Oh." And that was it. He didn't turn to John though, not for the rest of the day. In fact he disappeared into his room around dinner time, and that was the last he saw of him. Not a peep was heard from the violin either, which was interesting, since the whole street was usually given his wrath in the form of the violin at odd hours whenever he was feeling... feelings. But not even a pluck of the strings could be heard... And John wondered... had he broken the detective? Had he broken the man he'd originally thought was made from stone?

.

.

.

"Alright, what the hell is so bloody important, Mycroft?"

"Couldn't be bothered to change?"

"Like I said, '_so bloody important_', I figured it didn't deem a stop for proper attire, hence," Edlyn made a sweeping gesture across her body; trainers, jeans, jumper and coat. She did look terribly out of place in a professional government setting, but - "Mind you I'm still technically on holiday, so..."

Mycroft simply smiled at her, trying his hardest not to roll his eyes, "Follow me."

He guided her through a series of hallways, past doors that led to rooms and offices she was quite familiar with. They were on one of the lower levels, a level that contained soundproof rooms, with adjacent viewing rooms separated by one way mirror glass.

Mycroft stopped at a door and opened it, letting Edlyn walk in before him. She sighed, crossing her arms as she looked on to the man in the next room. He was seated in the only chair that furnished the room, dressed in formal trousers and a white t-shirt, his head was lolled forward, aside from his dark hair Edlyn couldn't see much of his face.

"So who's your guest?" she asked, noting the dark spattered stains on the cement of the floor within the cell. Blood, no longer fresh.

"He calls himself James Moriarty."

Edlyn swung her gaze up to her eldest brother so quickly her neck audibly popped, "Crikey," she muttered, eyes wide, full of wonder. Mycroft could see her mind working at full steam, all the knowledge filed away about this character now presenting itself. Given their differing fields of government work, Mycroft had no idea what could possibly be going on in her head, but he knew whatever she knew made this Moriarty man all the more compelling. "You're serious?"

Mycroft nodded.

Edlyn pulled her gloves from her coat pocket, took her phone from her jeans, and dropped them on the desk before taking the elastic from her hair and running her fingers through a couple of times, smoothing it down and fluffing it up. She breathed in sharply through her nose, staring determinedly through the glass, then headed for the door, pushing past her brother, "Give me your clearance, I'm going in."

Mycroft didn't have any room to protest. He didn't want her any where near that man, even if he knew she was perfectly capable, and in truth he had brought her _because_ of her capabilities; his other men couldn't produce anything, she was far better at gaining results. It was his protective nature, just like with Sherlock, only tenfold with Edlyn.

"Edy, wait!" he called after her, but she was sprinting down the hallway, already whipping around the corner to the next corridor by the time Mycroft took one step from the control room. It didn't matter though, he summed in his mind, he was in the **control** room; he wouldn't press the button and let her enter that room, and she didn't have her own clearance badge on her.

He waited; waited and watched, she'd be back soon. But then, to his horror, beyond the glass he could see the door open. Edlyn stepped in, tucking Mycroft's ID badge into her coat pocket, a small, mischievous smirk on her mouth. He patted his pockets in disbelief, though it was quite obvious, his movements to check for his card were subconscious, knee-jerk reaction.

"Gypsies," he grumbled under his breath. He continued to look on, his teeth on edge, his heart beating faster, as Edlyn rounded the chair in the middle of the room.

"Jim Moriarty," her voice sounded distant and crackly through the speakers, "Can finally put a face to a name and voice." Her arms were crossed again, but this was a stance Mycroft knew well. Displaying herself as if she weren't bothered, unafraid, like it was casual. Her bravery and pride all in her stance. He knew one day it would get her seriously hurt, or worse, killed. He just prayed today wasn't that day. From where she stood, just off the side of Moriarty, Mycroft could see his head slowly rise, his eyes traveling up her form until they finally landed to meet hers.

His face, one that had been expressionless, neutral, since his incarceration, finally twitched, before it cracked into a small grin, his brogue sounding playful, if not slightly worn from disuse, "And Miss Edlyn Winsome. Can finally put a lovely voice to match that face."

"You know who I am?" Nonplussed was the air she gave off, but Mycroft knew her better, he could tell she hadn't expected that. And neither had Mycroft. In fact, he hadn't expected her to know who this man was in the first place, let alone see a light brighten her eyes at just the mention of his name. He watched on, in hopes that he might receive answers to cure his confusion.

"Of course I know who you are," Moriarty's grin picked up higher on one side. He moistened his lips with a quick dart of his tongue, that smirk gone and back in a blink, "Question is, my dear, how do you know who I am?"

.

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Note: Ding! Where am I even going with this?! I DON'T KNOW!

Disclaimer: I do not own annnnnything!


	11. Chapter 11

"Alright, listen up, fives; a ten is speaking!"

A collective sigh emitted from the majority of the lawmen within New Scotland Yard. Edlyn stood outside of Detective Inspector Lestrade's office - with Sherlock having just departed to the evidence locker (Molly would have the severed ears in the lab, but it was the parcel's packaging Sherlock wanted to get a look at) - and Lestrade and John still in the office, she projected her voice for all to hear, choosing not to stand atop a chair, because she was just that full of Holmes-pride that she knew she didn't need to be elevated above a crowd to gain their attention.

John watched as the workers turned to her, some in interest, some in irritation. He could see Sally among a group that looked very unimpressed and aggravated, but as it was Edlyn was the most superior one - considering rank - in the office, probably in the entire building, so they had to listen. John was sure she loved the power she had; and she was definitely someone he could see going mad with power... in a comical, harmless way, of course.

"Now, I don't usually make time for foot soldiers such as yourselves - excluding you, my dear, Gregory -" she turned and sent a wink back into Lestrade's office and he snorted out a soft chuckle, John simply smiled, watching on as she turned back to the entire office, " - because honestly I don't see the point in it." Yep, she was definitely a Holmes; family that most likely was once royalty, given how snobbish they could be. "So, I'm only going to say this once, so listen carefully." She paused, and not a whisper could be heard, "Are you listening, yeah...?" John could practically hear the grin in her voice. It was quiet again for a solid 15 seconds before she finally declared, "Piss off!" Again, the room erupted with a collection of sighs, groans, and complaints that they couldn't believe this child was in charge of them. John just chuckled from where he stood beside Lestrade, shaking his head. "Thank you, now, I must be on my way, ta," Edlyn gave a short bow and swept through the office, toward the exit, but not before looking back at John and giving him a significant look and wave, as well as a wicked smirk and wink.

John cleared his throat, awkwardly, hoping he was successful in repressing the blush in his cheeks before it surfaced, "Does that happen often?" he asked, turning to Greg.

"Not in a while," Lestrade answered, standing up from his chair and walking round his desk. John followed, taking it as his cue to leave. "Haven't seen her in about a year and a half; don't know how long it's been for Sherlock but..." Greg went on, "She's a good woman, loyal to him. You and I could only _hope_ and _wish_ to have a woman love us like that, and Sherlock couldn't give two shits." Greg laughed, only half bitter, as he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. John felt a thrilling jump in his stomach, enjoying the fact that no one knew he and Edlyn were going on their first date this quickly approaching Friday. Other men could wish, sure, but John didn't have to.

"So that was for him, that little _announcement_?" John nodded to the office, all the workers, men and women, all back to work, chattering away, as if a little ginger British Government worker hadn't taken a full minute of their work and life away with a nonsensical declaration/ show of power.

Greg shrugged, "Makes things easier for him. He should be grateful to have a sibling that _actually likes_ him and _will_ flaunt their power for him. Sure, she'll get an earful from Mycroft for it, but all family's have different ways of displaying their love, right?"

John snorted, remembering the fight the two had not two weeks ago in the flat - just after Baskerville - the one about drugs; neither had spoken to one another for an entire week, then Edlyn had started work again, so any lack of communication wasn't purposeful. But much to John's surprise (and amusement) it was Sherlock that broke the silence and apologized first. Edlyn had sent a screen shot of the text to John, along with a shocked little emoticon face.

_'That's very uncharacteristic of him. What have you done, John. Did you slap him around a bit? Threaten his microscope?'_

_John glanced up from his phone, and spotted Sherlock in one of his usual spots, poised comfortably in his chair, book in hand, phone on the side table._

_He replied back, 'Not me. Perhaps he's experienced a feeling again.'_

_'Peculiar. Quite, peculiar indeed. Check his diet, John. It may be something he's eaten ;P'._

And since then the two had been on speaking terms; and as obviously orated earlier, Sherlock was back in her good graces. Though, since then, John had noticed Sherlock's shift in attitude; nothing drastic, but notable. He wasn't sure how to classify it, but something was different - but he didn't dwell on it long, because he rather enjoyed this new attitude. Sherlock seemed more... courteous, in a way... No, that couldn't be it... Professional? Less childish? That seemed more like it. But again! It didn't matter all that much to John, because it was pleasant (and he'd really rather not question it and spoil it) and things were getting much more pleasant for him. He had a date with an attractive red head in two days!

.

Since her conversation - it could hardly be called that, really - with Jim Moriarty, Edlyn had been on her guard. More so than she usually was. She was much more careful of where she went, how long she was somewhere (be it home, a shop, or a friends place), who was around her, what company she kept, and what she said. She was far more protective of those she frequently saw; John, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, Mother. And even those she saw infrequently she worried for - such as the twins and their parents, she'd called on them at least twice a week since her conversation with Moriarty.

Because there was no question about it... she was being watched.

Once he'd asked her how she knew of him she explained herself, in as few words as possible, "_In my line of work you hear a lot of names, get a lot of calls; you get to know who's who in the grand scheme of things."_

_"The scheme of things in the criminal world, you mean?" Jim grinned, "Tell me, darling, when have we spoken before. You said you knew my voice. And forgive me for not recalling having been previously graced to speak with you."_

_Edlyn's eyes flickered toward the door, rather than toward the mirror behind her where she knew Mycroft was watching, knew he was shaking his head, probably telling her not to say anything, scolding her for telling him anything about herself at all, for being in that room at all._

_"There was a man in Moscow," she answered simply, "He was a little difficult to handle, but I caught him while he was on the phone with you."_

_Briefly, Jim glanced upward in though, chewing on his lip before he nodded, gasping out, "Ah, so that's what happened! Thought it was terrible reception. But no, it was just sweet, little, _you_."_

_"I've heard other things of you," she kept on._

_"Oh, have you now? Only good things, I hope."_

_"No."_

_"Figured not."_

_"Depends on you who you're asking, I suppose."_

_"And if I asked you, Little Miss Winsome?"_

_At that moment Edlyn's blood ran cold. It was strange. When put in a room - full of people or just one other occupant - she was always confident of her capabilities, sure of herself. But at that moment, she wanted to bolt for that door, display her fear and run. Why? She hardly knew this man aside from what she heard through the grapevine. _A consulting criminal_. It was laugh worthy. But why wasn't she laughing now, face to face with the joke. Why was she scared, because of the way he said her name...? The only thing she could liken it to was the mental imagery of him signing of her death certificate._

_"Poor little Edy."_

_Her eyes shot to him, to see his smirk staying small and firmly in place. How did he know - ?_

_"Poor little Edy, raised by gypsies and abandoned in France," he pulled a frown then, jutting out his bottom lip in an exaggerated, not at all sympathetic, way, "You'd think gypsies wouldn't be so cruel - thick as thieves, right? But then again," he shrugged, "_**Gypsies**_. Can't trust them. Not like one could trust a prestigious English family. What a charming fairy tale, rags to riches over night. You're a regular Cinderella, my dear."_

_This wasn't right. This wasn't how it went. She always had the upper hand in these situations, in these controlled situations she had the control. But she didn't have the upper hand, she'd somehow lost control and she was close to panicking._

_"But you crave that filthy life again, don't you? A life of tricks, lies, deceit. Calls to you, doesn't it. All that talent, wasted. But that's why you do what you do. That's why you trail after and contain men like me and you work them for information. Anyway way you can, but you favour one technique. From what I hear you've got a _mean_ right hook," he jolted forward in his chair, and she found pride in herself when she didn't jump back like a frightened rabbit, "Go on!" he encouraged, "Give it a go! Give me your best shot! I want to feel it. I want it, I want it, I want it. Come on, Edy. Do it for your big brother, that's why he brought you here anyway. Because I won't talk. I won't! Not until I'm given what I want," he sing-songed, pointedly looking toward the mirror, though there was no doubt in either of their minds that Mycroft had already fled the viewing room and was currently bolting to the cell door._

_She knew she was bloody stupid for thinking she could handle this situation. Waltzing in big headed and now shaking in her boots. But she was torn between being scared, and facing Moriarty until she was on top again. There were times when she had to resort to running away, but she didn't want this to be another one of those times. "And what is that you want?"_

_Jim paused, grin falling away from his face as he looked away from her to blink once, twice, until his smile reappeared, stretching wider than before, "Well, for a moment there I'd forgotten. I was having so much _fun_. But you know... I think I'd rather have you instead."_

_Edlyn stepped back. And she could hear the door handle being tugged and pulled on, all of Mycroft's effort useless since she had the keycard._

_"You and I aren't quite the same. Not like he and I are. But you... I think you and I could make quite the pair." Jim smiled and winked. A gesture that normally would've been charming was just infuriating. Edlyn nearly felt the need to reel back and strike him, if that meant she had the power again, if she had the control in the room. But it wouldn't mean that. Mycroft was crowing for her out there, she was sure of it, but she couldn't hear through the thick steel. There were muffled thumps and the door handle jiggling, but it was up to her when she would leave._

_She wasn't frozen to the spot anymore. Though she was quite scared, she was also intrigued (damnable Holmes fascination). If she was going to leave this room, it wouldn't be because she was scared, she decided. "What ever it is you want. You won't have it," she said, her voice steady and cool. "And what ever it is that you're hiding. We will find it."_

_And with that she stalked toward the door, badge ready to swipe her way out._

_"You won't," Jim's voice echoed off the small enclosed walls, "You can try. But you won't."_

_She hummed, "Lovely making your acquaintance."_

_"The same to you, wonderful to see you again, my dear. Send my regards to the boys at Baker Street."_

It was with his final words that she mentally admitted defeat. 'Wonderful to see you again', he had said. How long had he been watching her, and for what purpose? It was unsettling in the worst way. He knew everything. Everything she strove to hide, he knew it.

She was actually quite ashamed to have been abandoned, arrested and adopted. What did that say about her, that she was just garbage, used up of all her talents, useless, easily dispensable, forgotten. Sure, her parents and those she'd travelled with were the bad guys, but from her perspective she could only understand it as _she_ had done something wrong, or she wasn't good enough anymore and that's why they ditched her.

That wasn't something liked to think about let alone talk about. In fact, she had no idea why she'd been so open to speak to John about it. What had compelled her to think and speak about something so incredibly unpleasant... But the way Moriarty had recited it, like he'd just quickly researched her on a internet article, simple as that.

And the way he seemed to see right through her, see what was hidden within her... There was a part of her that craved the street life again. The wonderful before-during-after feeling that came with pulling off a scam. Pawning stolen goods. Taking advantage of the simple minded. In her job part of the craving was fulfilled, just a small part.

She liked describe her occupation as beating bad guys within an inch of their lives until they gave up what she wanted to hear... All in the name of Queen and Country, of course... Information Retrieval is what Mycroft called it, that must have been the professional title, but she wasn't at liberty to actually talk about her work so the title didn't really matter all that much. Travelling to other countries, spending time to learn layouts of cities and routines of targets, and blending in soothed the craving itch, somewhat; threatening people bodily was just a bonus.

But how could Moriarty possibly know that. How could he possibly read that on her; Sherlock didn't even know what she did for a living, and he especially didn't know that she yearned a lowly criminal life again. So... How...?

It was wrong, and it was bad, and it had a possibility of turning her life upside down. So she had to be careful. She had to be... Because things were going so well. Sherlock was being a... human being, for once. Mother was happy. Mycroft was losing weight (though given what he'd witnessed in that cell, he'd probably divested himself of his anxiety in a few cakes and sweets). And she had a date with John! Things were splendid. She couldn't let them be soured by this one unpleasant encounter - !

Her phone chimed and she sighed, flopping over in her bed, toward the nightstand. It wasn't that late yet, just nearly 7, but she was already in bed, already exhausted from... _everything_. The curtains were drawn closed and she was close to a headache induced slumber before her phone sounded off. She stretched her arm and groaned pitifully when her reach was just two inches too short. She tugged herself across the bed a little more and snatched the thing just as it pinged again.

"Please be John, please be John, please be John," she mumbled, "Hell, I'd even take a text from Sherlock."

She winced in preparation as she unlocked the screen and the message shined too bright in her dark room.

She deflated, sighing and dropping her face into a pillow, cursing into it, "There goes my date..."

A text from her boss read, 'Got one for you.' And a follow up text, 'Your flight leaves Thursday morning.'

.

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* * *

Note: I'm not sure how I feel about this one. At first I was like, fuck yeah the plot thickens, but I don't even know where I'm going with this! IS the plot really thickening? IS IT? I don't know. But anyway! As always, I appreciate the follows, views and reviews.

MUCH MUCH MUCH THANKS TO rycbar15. Thank you very much for reviewing each chapter, you're so kind!

Also, I probably should've mentioned this at the start, I'm, unfortunately, American (if it wasn't already painfully obvious), so any, you know, British-American mistakes are my own.

Disclaimer: I don't own ANYTHINGGG!


	12. Chapter 12

When Edlyn awoke the next morning she grabbed her phone off its charger, wary of opening her eyes, already dreading the warm light that enveloped her room. She cracked open one eye carefully and looked at the time -

10:12.

God, why didn't it feel like enough rest, she wondered. She'd fallen asleep quite quickly after sending a text of affirmation to her boss.

Rubbing away at any traces of sleep that still lingered in her eyes with the back of her other hand, she unlocked her phone screen with the other and found she had nine new text messages unopened. Three were from John, a text from last night around 9, asking her what she was up to, and telling her that the case was solved; then another at 11 that said good night with a smiley face. (God! John was so cute). Then a good morning text from about three hours ago. She smiled sleepily at it, feeling a pang in her gut at having to break the news that their date would have to be postponed.

Moving on to the rest of her unopened texts she was surprised to find they were from Sherlock.

'_Solved the case. You were right about marital troubles, and the sailing experience_.'

'_Turns out sisters can be quite cruel. I suppose I lucked out with you and Mycroft_.'

She chuckled softly at Sherlock's poke at their elder brother, always teasing him about his weight or his feminine ways. Always in friendly, familial jest. Those messages were sent at 8:30 last night. And the rest were sent with an hour's space in between them, starting at 1 in the morning.

'_If you're at Mother's you could tell her hello from me_.'

'_Lestrade said I should show more gratitude toward you. So thank you, I suppose_.'

'_For the record, you rank above Mycroft and below Mrs. Hudson on my list of tolerable people_.'

'_John seems much more excited about this date with you than he's been about dates with his past girlfriends_.'

She turned onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Puzzled and stricken. Was she a cruel sister? Contrary to what Sherlock had said?

Dating John, essentially stealing him from Sherlock. Was that not an unjust act? Her face scrunched up in disgust, emotions waging war inside her. Happiness and giddiness against horror and sorrow.

Well, it wouldn't matter much anyway, because the date was off. She had to go into work today for briefing then tomorrow she'd be on a plane to what ever destination needed her firm handed assistance in retrieving something.

And now, she felt, it was time to feed her slight addiction. (Her pack had one left. "For fuck's sake! Can't catch a break, can I?")

.

It was around tea time when John arrived home from work. And just by his slow, dragging steps Sherlock could tell he was sulking. He didn't want to tease his friend, but it was so very hard not to. Without looking he knew it was girl trouble, and unfortunately, _the girl_ was his adopted sister. He knew their date was Friday, but something must have come up, something that would cause the date to be called off. The surgery John worked at was fairly lenient; giving John time off for cases whenever he asked, short noticed or not, so it must have been something with Edlyn's work; something that wasn't within London, within England at all; something that was taking her out of the country. Oh, yes, it was obvious. Sherlock didn't raise his eyes from his book when John stepped into view and sulked his way to the kitchen to start the water.

"Bad day at work, then," Sherlock surmised smoothly; trying his hand at compassion though he already knew full well that he was about to be assaulted by the sob-story of why he wasn't going out Friday night.

John aggressively pulled two mugs from the cupboard, clanking them loudly against the counter top. He flicked the cupboard door shut before he turned to lean against the counter's edge. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, eyes pinched shut. His hand came away and his mouth was open, but no words sounded. He repeated this two more times before he opened his eyes, and huffed, "You **really** don't know what it is she does for the government?"

Sherlock hid his grin behind his book before he snapped it closed, set it aside and looked to his friend with a serious face of contemplation, "I have a few ideas. None that would please you, but they might be... somewhat entertaining."

John sighed, pathetically, "Go on, then."

For the next hour Sherlock regaled John with outrageous and obscure theories of what Edlyn's occupation in the British government might be (court jester other royals could borrow from Her Majesty, explosives expert, royal baby sitter, maybe she was married to some ancient thing of royalty in some far off place who was about to croak, and they wanted a pretty young heiress to inherit once they passed). The point was to take John out of his depressive funk, get him to smile, to laugh, and Sherlock succeeded...

The more John began to unwind, the more he began to succumb to his exhaustion. He was surprised with himself for not springing to attention when Sherlock started to tell short stories from his childhood days, stories about Edlyn and what she'd get up to, what they'd get up to together. But the day had been long, and his emotional flip flop had drained him, he found himself nodding, half listening, half on the edge of sleep.

The last thing he recalled hearing was Sherlock explaining about a Christmas party when he was fifteen, something he'd never told anybody.

John chuckled softly in his throat - that was one page of the Holmes sibling mystery he already knew - then fell into a peaceful slumber in his chair.

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* * *

Note: Um, so it's a really short one. Sorry?

Also sorry for any grammatical mistakes. I was SO SHIT with proof reading this time. UGH!

Thank you to those that review and follow!

Disclaimer: I don't own a thing! Not a thing!


	13. Chapter 13

Edlyn was gone for two and half weeks. And in that time Sherlock and John had taken and solved three cases. Their last - and one they were currently returning from - involved a missing bride. And Americans. Oh, how they wished Edlyn was there to mediate, seeing as they didn't have the greatest of track records with Americans, and she had friends of her own that were among the 50 states.

They shared a cab, and as it drew closer to John's surgery the doctor grumbled about working an evening shift, presuming he would be working far later than necessary. He'd been roped into it by Sarah, and god, he wished he'd declined (or better yet, possessed the actual ability to decline), he was exhausted from the case, and tacking on another six or so hours of work... It was just a recipe for a bad night.

With John gone Sherlock was left alone in the taxi as it continued on its journey to Baker Street. And left alone, still, it seemed when Sherlock stepped through 221B's door and Mrs. Hudson didn't shuffle out to greet him. Alone... Strangely enough he should've been grateful for the suddenly bout of solitude he was given; all the things he could get done, all the things he could ponder, in silence, experiments he could do without anyone making a fuss, in undisturbed seclusion; but he wasn't happy for it. Not really.

As he took the ascending steps slowly, venturing up to where he'd be confined in quiet peace, alone, he realized he actually... enjoyed... other people's company.

Well, not just _other people_ in general. Not even _people_. Mostly just John. John was good. And so was Edlyn, to an extent. Even if they're going to... _date_ each other. He still wasn't sure how he felt about the idea, them together like that. Well, not like _that_, he didn't think that in-depth about it. That wouldn't - It just wasn't something he should really - It - He - hmm.

John was a great companion! And Edlyn... well... It had been quite some time since he'd tolerated her company for so long. His attitude unconsciously shifting, it was her fault. But John had changed him too, in some ways. Good ways, Sherlock thought. They made him more human. Or gave their best efforts... They were good together, and he should be happy for them; at least that's what he assumed he should be feeling. But there was something else in place of that should-be-happiness. He couldn't name what it was but it was strange, it almost felt... defensive, or protective... But for who was he feeling this for -?

He halted, in motion and in thought, inside the doorway and heaved a great sigh. Whether it was of relief, irritation or something else entirely, he didn't justly know. He pulled his gloves from his hands and stowed them in his coat pocket before removing the coat itself and hanging it on the rack.

"For god's sake, get up," he didn't make any attempts to be gentle with his tone or volume; after all, why should he be courteous to an intruder inside his home? There - in his own chair, curled up like some sort of ginger tinged feline - sat Edlyn, sound asleep. Less snugly, though, when Sherlock's baritone penetrated the sweet calm and quiet that had hung over the flat like a warm, comforting blanket. Edlyn's brow scrunched up in a wince, but she didn't make any movement to heed Sherlock's barked order. All she managed to do was curl further into herself, into a smaller, tighter ball and feign like she hadn't heard him at all, kept on like a lazy cat that couldn't be bothered.

"Edy, get up," Sherlock's tone was still loud and no-nonsense as he peeled away his jacket and tossed it over John's vacant chair. He sighed again when she didn't move, didn't even acknowledge him, and he refrained from stomping as he made his way over to her. He stood beside his chair, hovering over it, arms crossed and was just about to rattle of any and all details he had on her least favourite subject (chemistry) in an attempt to cause her to flee from the house, but then... that spiffed up attitude thing... compassion... gratitude.

Hm.

He paused in contemplation - to be a dick, or not to be a dick; that was the question.

He ultimately decided to go the nice way, to give it a go at least, see if he could manage it, see what results it would produce. He crouched down, and... He supposed it was the familiarity that caused him to reach out and gently tuck away the hair veiling her face, "You'll get an ache in your neck if you stay like that and _I'll_ never hear the end of it."

Edlyn snorted softly and a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, but didn't open her eyes as she slowly unfurled from her curled state and nearly oozed onto the floor, "So thoughtful," she murmured.

With her upper half still sprawled along the cushion of the chair, her legs appearing boneless on the floor, Sherlock tried not to sigh another pained huff before stooping down to retrieve her. But he recoiled, snapping back up to his full height. Sniffing the air, it was faint, but squatting back down to Edlyn's level again, it was strong. Pungent, even.

"Have you been drinking?"

He didn't really need to ask; she smelled like a rum soaked homeless.

Edlyn's eyes had yet to open, in fact, she was probably incapable of opening them, "I had a few on the plane."

A few, Sherlock rolled his eyes. Understatement.

"And you came here... Why...?"

"Worried about you," she mumbled, "'nd John. Mrs. Hudson..." she trailed off, and began to ooze further off the chair, almost completely before Sherlock snatched her up. Being the rather petite thing she was (even if she had gained a few pounds while on her last... excursion, he noted, and made sure not to make said note verbal) it was a sort of simple effort for Sherlock to hook an arm beneath her knees and around her back to haul her up. Sherlock was thin, but lean muscled, contrary to what Edlyn shouted about him being _bean-pole skinny, practically a functioning skeleton who'd snap under the slightest weight_. So creative.

Curious though. Worried about them? He searched for her fingernails. Her right arm was dangling and swinging limply, but her left arm was tucked close to her, hand rest on her thigh, and that was evidence enough, the nails nearly chewed until none remained. "Why would you be worried about us?" he asked, taking full advantage of her sleepy and most likely still-drunken state to pull the un-filtered truth from her. He stepped carefully through the sitting room, toward the hall.

"Comes with the job." Sherlock could just barely decipher her garbled words. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He would've prodded for more, but by how she'd descended into complete silence he assumed he'd lost her to slumber. Damn.

He put her down onto his bed as carefully as possible, forgoing pulling the sheet over her when he knew of her sleeping habits; blankets began atop her, but by morning they were kicked away, sometimes strewn about the floor surrounding the bed. Sherlock figured that was that; that was his good deed for the day - no, week - month, rather, and he could carry on as usual, but then, just as he turned for the door -

"That's my violin, you know?" her voice came out muffled do to her face being partially smashed into a pillow.

Sherlock turned, and sat on the edge of the bed; perhaps he still could get some information out of her yet. Maybe she'd finally let her occupation slip and he'd finally know.

The violin. The violin was on his desk in the sitting room. The impossibly old thing. "I know."

Edlyn's eyelids blinked, but they still couldn't manage a fraction of a inch, "You took it from me because you had to prove a point."

"And I broke mine the year before."

"You broke it because you were trying to prove a point then, too!" she smiled, and her fiery locks were a force to be reckoned with; especially capable of being constantly mussed when intoxicated. She blew away at the hair near her mouth, bringing a hand to swat it away when that didn't work. "Do you keep it around because you miss me?"

Sentiment? "Absolutely not."

"Aww," she cooed, pouting slightly, and Sherlock eyes were drawn to her mouth. Without her hair obstructing her face he could make out the vibrant line against her bottom lip. Split, but two - no three days healed. His observations were put on hold when she uttered, "Do you really hate me Sherlock. Truly?"

And there was something in that wondering. Probably because alcohol had a way of bringing the truth out of some people. But something else - genuine concern. He was never the kindest to her, not now, not as children. This was a deep seeded wonder, a worrying ache in her she didn't let him see, let anyone see. How long... How could he be so cruel, he wondered, to a girl who'd been abandoned. One who always sought to please others and be well liked if not loved. Was he just the same as her biological parents, writing her off as something that didn't need to be bothered with, something that couldn't be spared attention, appreciation, something they didn't want so they forced it away from their lives. She must have felt that way about everyone, anyone... Probably why she acted so friendly. She just wanted to be acknowledged, remembered.

"Of course I don't," he answered. And her eyes peeked open, just enough that he could see a sliver of iris and pupil, "You're just incredibly annoying sometimes."

Her eyes shut and a watery grin spread over her mouth, "Only sometimes, though?"

"Others times you're... not so bad," he admitted. He figured it was alright to talk, even if it was difficult for him, she wouldn't remember it, hopefully.

"You're not so bad, either, sometimes." And she fell silent again, still. Sherlock moved the blasted, troublesome hair away, just to check for any other minor wounds her tresses might conceal. There was a fading, yellowing bruise against her cheekbone. Nothing else...

How...? Was all he could wonder. How, what, why and who. Would he ever know? It was irritating to ponder for more than a second. So he wouldn't think about it, once he left the room he'd continue on like he still alone in the flat, ponder things that _could_ produce answers.

Sherlock stood, as the quiet consumed the air, prepared to make his escape, but all too suddenly he was grabbed by his shirt. A drunken fist clutched around fabric, rucking it up from where it had been smartly tucked, then released only to grab at him again, encircling his wrist and tugging him back toward the bed.

He caught himself before there could be any sort of catastrophic impact; the one hand with its wrist held captive planted firmly on the pillow beside Edlyn's head while the other braced on the headboard; all of it happening within a blink. He looked down fearful of hurting the being that had snatched him back so roughly, but then he was struck by how familiar this was, once upon a time. Feeling like a beast looming over prey. An embarrassing reaction of hunger in his gut, an overwhelming feeling of betrayal and disgust.

Edlyn's eyes were opened to slits, her grip didn't relent on his wrist, and Sherlock wondered if there might have been some kind of strengthening serum in one of her beverages. "You know what Irene said when I told her about our history, Sherlock?"

Now this was an Edlyn he knew quite well, this was the one he'd thought he was banishing from his home the first night she had shown up to Baker Street. This one who played innocent on the surface but was devious beneath, a demon playing as an angel. (Or perhaps an angel turned into a demon putting on a front as an angel... a different angel. Maybe a different analogy. Wolf in sheep's clothing? He wasn't sure how to label it, but he knew this crafty Edlyn far better than the one who played nice in front of company.)

He'd forgotten entirely about her other hand, being solely focused on the one that was firm like a too tight cuff around his wrist. Her small hand came to rest at his neck, and he loathed how his body betrayed him. Transport, that's all his body was for, transport. But this devil had her ways, had her soothing touches, honeyed words, that had him leaning in her caress, moving in closer in hopes to taste those sweet words as they danced from her wicked tongue, past her lush lips. "She was envious. She could see that little piece of virtue wasn't really there - that it had already been taken." Her fingers trailed from his neck, softly brushing down his chest, until a firm grip hooked onto his belt and tugged lazily.

Sherlock hated it. Hated how he liked it. How he slipped; how he _wanted_. Hated how she could elicit a response from his like this.

All of her touch disappeared them, suddenly, simultaneously, and her eyes blinked closed, that jaunty tone in her voice sounded again, "But then, of course, we had a laugh at the memory of it. How positively vestal and sloppy it was," she chuckled. A hand raised up to blindly pat his cheek, "Don't worry, I didn't give her _all_ the details, just the funny bits."

Sherlock sagged, slightly. In despair (at the idea of Irene and Edlyn laughing at teenaged stories) and disgust (at himself for nearly losing himself completely, giving in). But then, given how close their bodies had become, how close his face had inched toward hers, lips just a breath away, he could not only smell the booze still heavy on her tongue, but see the cut on her lip. That snapped him back to himself, "What happened to your lip."

Questions without question marks. Classic Sherlock.

"Ugh," Edlyn groaned, expression turned from peaceful to sour in half a moment; she turned away from him, luckily the right way, otherwise she'd have plummeted off the bed, "leave me alone."

And he did leave her alone after that. She fell asleep almost the instant she'd turned away, snoring softly.

Sherlock righted himself and left the room.

The situation was over, walked away from - physically...

But mentally... What she had roused. What he'd suppressed for years...

.

.

.

John woke later than usual, but in his defense, he was right when he assumed his shift would drag on longer than scheduled. He made his way down the stairs on weary feet, eyes still bleary as he walked on auto-pilot to the kitchen to make himself some coffee.

He muttered a barely coherent greeting, unsure if there was actually anyone to greet as he shuffled from cupboard to cupboard until his had his piping hot morning caffeinated brew.

Moving from the kitchen and toward the sofa where he'd undoubtedly find the newspaper he finally noticed that there was someone there, two someones actually, and that's what startled him.

"Edlyn," he garbled out, having burned his tongue in a hasty attempt at swallowing his first too early sip.

The redhead beamed brightly from her spot on the sofa, "Morning."

"Did you just get in?" John wondered, bypassing the sofa, but taking the newspaper when Edlyn plucked it from the coffee table and handed it his way.

It was in the few seconds it took John to get seated in his chair and arrange the paper in his lap and his coffee on the side table that Sherlock and Edlyn shared a quick glance. With a fractional quirk of Edlyn's brow and a minute head shake in response from Sherlock, Edlyn was refocused on John just as he looked up awaiting her answer, with that bright grin on her face again, she nodded, "Yep, just this morning."

Edlyn sent another brief look Sherlock's way, an exclamation in her widened eyes and raised brow, 'What the hell?! Why are we lying?! What did I do?!'

Sherlock replied with a roll of his eyes, 'Later'. Apparently what ever had occurred in the later hours of the previous night Sherlock thought it best if John didn't know about it, or just... about them being alone together?

Dear god, Edlyn mused miserably, what had her drunken-self done _this_ time? It couldn't have been too bad, since Sherlock was still there, he hadn't fled, so that was good... right?

"Ah, and how was it? Your business trip. Or can you not...?" John asked, the paper in his lap simply a farce, he had no intention of reading today's news, not when Edlyn was back, here, and looking not at all worse for wear given her week of work and arrival back in London (Edlyn was thankful for many things, and makeup was definitely at the top of the list).

"South Africa," she nodded, bouncing once on the sofa cushion, "It was lovely, thank you. I can't tell you specific details, but, uh, I can tell you about the sights, if you've ever been there -"

"I haven't."

"Well, it's wonderful. I've already been a few times, I think it was my... fifth, yes, fifth time. And..."

And so the Edlyn told John as much as she could, but never anything about her mission, her objective, which she had successfully accomplished, and would receive honours for if she hadn't told Mycroft that this time she respectfully declined.

Significant looks were shot back and forth between the Holmes', and the more time passed the more Edlyn became worried she let something slip in her intoxicated state, something of national security detail, or foreign information that would be of absolutely no use in Sherlock's hands, but the fact remained, her professionalism was at stake... or... Had something else happened... Another rare occurrence...

No.

She would've been sure if something of that nature happened. Like she noted before, Sherlock would've fled the country before gaining eye contact with her, and he wasn't having any trouble with that. No, that piercing stare was at its usual sharpness...

God, she and John really needed to go on that date.

.

.

* * *

Note: So yeeeah, I guess that happened. Sooo... Interesting. I always think I have great plans in store, but then I write it and it's like... meh. But a vERY TANGLED WEB I WEAVE, friends. Very tangled indeed. Too tangled, probably. Hm.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Not a thing. Nope.

Another note: Just now I hit the spell check provided by ff dot net and... has anyone else used it before? Because it's slightly rude! Like Sherlock. I can hear his voice! 'REDUDANT EXPRESSION, use this instead, fool.' 'This requires a hyphen. God, do I have to tell you how to do everything?' 'Complex word, impressive... not really.'  
Gosh... Well, yeah, I just, that's what came to mind when I saw those blue and green underlined bits, hah!


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